


And the Guilty Soldiers Fall

by authoressnebula (authoressjean)



Series: The Haunted Hotels [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Agatha Christie spoilers, Angst, As in spoiling Agatha Christie's "And Then There Were None", BAMF Dean Winchester, BAMF Sam Winchester, Brotherly Love, Case Fic, Episode: s06e14 Mannequin 3: The Reckoning, Gen, Horror, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-24 19:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20020174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressnebula
Summary: Sequel to Requiem of the Forsaken. Another haunted hotel appears on the Winchesters' radar, and the boys reluctantly take the case. When they find themselves locked in with a frightened group of civilians, and bodies begin to drop one by one, the brothers fight not only to find their ghost and guess the next victim, but to also keep each other alive until sunrise.





	1. The 10th Resort

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "Requiem of the Forsaken" and reposted from Halloween 2011 from LiveJournal. Warning for graphic violence and deaths. Not our boys - they make it clear through, so no worries there - but minor characters die. A lot. 
> 
> It is an absolute requirement to have read the first in this series. I also completely spoil the plot of Agatha Christie's "And Then There Were None" which is a beautiful work of fiction. Also, scary as shit.

“Didn't we say that we weren't ever going to do another haunted hotel as long as we lived?”  
  
“This one's different,” Dean protested, glancing up. From beyond Sam's shoulder, he could just make out the road leading out of town to the Huckston Retreat. Brand spanking new, it was a perfect, cozy hideaway, or a great place to book a conference, if the pamphlet was anything to judge by. No mysterious fires, no murdering psychopaths, no people looking away and stammering when asked about the place. So far, from what Dean could gather, it was an newly built, old mansion style house with a large group of suites for high-paying clients. There were plans to open small cabins in the woods surrounding it. It was a nice place to stay. Barely open for two weeks.  
  
And apparently, it already had a ghost problem.  
  
“I don't know,” Sam said, returning his gaze to his lunch and research. Dean looked down at the huge amount of papers on the table, but couldn't help another wary glance over Sam's shoulder, though. “The last one was a doozy, man. And a bad one at that. We barely got out of there alive, never mind the living nightmare part.”  
  
Dean conceded with a nod of his head. The Ocean House Hotel had been a living hell from the minute the doors had locked behind them. Chased all night by a murderous poltergeist with a hard-on for slicing and dicing, all while trying to figure out what the hell had really happened all those years ago, hadn't made for a night of fun. Still, they'd stopped possible future murders.  
  
That point itself gave another point in Dean's favor, he reminded himself. “Yeah, but this one hasn't killed anyone yet. Just scared a bunch of teenagers, one of whom wound up in the hospital.”  
  
“Unconscious,” Sam said, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“And waking up slowly but surely,” Dean rejoined, raising _his_ eyebrow and doing a better job of it than Sam did. “Look, we'll keep doing the research, we'll make sure that we're safe this time, no hidden little mysteries to deal with. Go in after everything's laid out, handle it, the end. Piece of cake.”  
  
“You realize you've probably just jinxed us,” Sam said unhappily. “We thought the last one was going to be easy, too. Then Bethany showed up. Then _he_ showed up.”  
  
“Minor complications.”  
  
The look Sam gave him could've cut through glass, and Dean had never been happier to be its recipient. He'd actually missed his brother's bitch-face, truth be told. And the heavy, put-upon sigh, which Sam chose that moment to exhibit. He'd missed that too.  
  
He'd just missed Sam. His little brother, whole and in one piece, soul and all. It was good. Life was good.  
  
...Yeah, okay, he probably was jinxing the shit out of them.  
  
“Go over it again,” Dean said, stretching himself out in his chair. It was nice enough to eat outside at the cafe, and while it was no greasy spoon diner, the club sandwich wasn't half bad. Besides, better to eat outside where no one could overhear their conversation then inside where they were packed in alongside the other customers. For a small town, the place was hopping.  
  
“It's a resort town, Dean,” Sam said, as if hearing his thoughts. Or, more likely, following his gaze to the cafe. “And it's just getting nice out. Bound to be filled with people. Be thankful we're not at Myrtle Beach or Hilton Head Island.”  
  
“Huckston Retreat,” Dean repeated again, rolling his hand for Sam to continue. “Go, go, go.”  
  
“Huckston Retreat, the 10th resort that Thomas Latter has built, has been open for twelve days, not even actually officially open,” Sam said, turning back to his pages with a sigh. “The opening party is slated for next week. Built to fit in with the historic aspect of the town, yet offers modern amenities such as a tennis court, walking trails, the usual for a resort. Construction on the cabins is set to be finished before summer.”  
  
Dean couldn't help but glance around as Sam provided details. Beaufort, South Carolina was a nice sized city with a small town feeling and plenty of guests to keep it busy. Tons and _tons_ of historic districts and homes, lots of open bay area for beaches and swimming. Made for a nice tourist attraction.  
  
“Sounds nice enough,” Dean said, turning back to his brother. Sam was busy flipping through numerous pages that he had laid out in front of him, including a nice stack that was on top of his sandwich. He was biting his lower lip as he looked, the perfect picture of concentration, and Dean couldn't help but smile. God but he'd missed the geeky side of Sam.  
  
“Yeah, until you read into the truth,” Sam muttered. “Three nights ago, a group of teenagers got inside, wanting to get the first look at the place. They reported that they saw a woman who was covered in a bloody dress, and they said it seemed like she was everywhere at once. No matter where they ran, she kept following them. She rushed them suddenly when they were almost out of the place, and pushed one of the kids hard enough to make him take a tumble down the stairs. Broken arm, concussion, still in the hospital.” He looked up at Dean with pursed lips. “Beyond that, she didn't hurt them, and the kids got out fine, except for Joel Green, the one she shoved down the stairs.”  
  
“What's the history of the place?” Dean asked. “I know it's new, don't give me that look. I'm talking about the land, or if there was anything else ever on it.”  
  
“Honestly?” Sam shrugged, helplessly gesturing towards the ocean of papers before him. “There's nothing. I can't find anything about the place. The land was purchased two years ago. The contract almost fell through twice before it was finalized. They got to work. No injuries except for one broken foot, when one worker dropped a hammer. No women were in the crew, though a few were on the committee, and none of them died.”  
  
Dean hung his head and sighed. “Why can't they be easy?” he moaned.  
  
“Hey, you're the one that wanted to take another haunted hotel,” Sam pointed out, like the irritating pain in the ass that he was. “I was totally okay heading west to those random dust clouds that were popping up in New Orleans.”  
  
Dean had to admit, it'd been intriguing. Not exactly a place most people thought of a dust cloud forming, considering the place was damp and full of marshes. Still, they'd been closer to the Carolinas. “Rufus was in New Orleans already,” Dean reminded him. “Made more sense for him to check it out.”  
  
“And now we owe him a bottle of whiskey.”  
  
Dean winced. Yeah, that favor hadn't been cheap. “We'll make this one quick. Talk to the kids, scan the house _during the day_ , and get rid of our ghost. This one doesn't have a mysterious past.”  
  
“Then it shouldn't have a spirit,” Sam countered. “I don't know. I've got a bad feeling about this one, Dean.”  
  
He'd had a bad feeling about the Ocean House Hotel, too. “I hate when you have bad feelings about stuff,” Dean grumbled, reaching for his sandwich.  
  
“I hate when you don't listen to me about my bad feelings,” Sam said, turning back to his own plate. He frowned as if just realizing he'd piled all his research on top of his food, and Dean grinned around his next bite. Grumpy Sam, confused Sam, geeky Sam, it didn't matter. He'd take them all, so long as they were _Sam_. He'd missed his brother.  
  
Still, he planned on taking Sam's bad feelings into consideration. He always did, no matter what the bitch might say. This one wasn't as ominous a beginning as the other hotel had been, but it was just as confusing. It didn't make any sort of sense. The place had no history, the land was clean, which meant there was a secret somewhere in the house. Or on the land.  
  
Or...  
  
Dean glanced up just as Sam did. “Someone might've been dumped there,” Sam said, beating him to it. “It was just clear land, nothing else there until Thomas Latter bought it up.”  
  
“Did you check the town of Beaufort in general?”  
  
“No,” Sam said, and the sheer, genuine regret in his tone made something stupidly warm swell inside of Dean. “Damn it, I should've thought of it.”  
  
“Later,” Dean promised. “I'll get you into a library while I check out the kids. See if I can't figure out anything else from them. There's certain things they're not going to tell the cops. I'm surprised they told the authorities as much as they did.”  
  
“They're fifteen, Dean,” Sam said. “At max. I think Joel's thirteen, the youngest in the group.”  
  
No way a fifteen year old let a thirteen year old tag along unless they were a younger sibling. That was his in, right there. “Point. We'll find the library, get you settled, and I'll see what I can get out of the kids.”  
  
“Hopefully by the time you get there, I'll have more for you to ask them,” Sam said, moving his papers aside to rediscover his sandwich. “Any details at all would help.”  
  
Dean knew that – hell, he'd been the one to teach Sam that – but he was too happy about having the real Sam back to care. “You don't finish your sandwich and I will, Samantha,” Dean told him, and Sam hastily grabbed his BLT before he could do anything more than reach a hand out. He stole one of Sam's fries, just on principle, and reveled in the bitch face he got for it.  
  
This job was going to be a piece of cake. He was certain of it.  
  
  
  
“This case is going to be a bitch,” Sam murmured to himself, staring miserably at the pile of newspapers before him. There were a few heavy books off to the side, just in case the old papers weren't enough. All in all, there were two hundred mysterious female deaths in the past century alone, according to his web search of Beaufort, and close to one thousand disappearances for the town total since people began occupying it. That was the problem with an old town.  
  
Dean was off, happily investigating and interrogating teenagers, though scaring them shitless probably wasn't out of the realm of possibility. That left Sam to wander through all the papers and registries. Alone.  
  
It wasn't a bad thing, and Sam was grateful that Dean was letting him do it alone. Ever since Sam had seized and found himself thrown behind the Wall, capital letter a must, Dean had been a constant shadow, going everywhere and doing everything Sam did. It wasn't ideal, and Sam was getting frustrated at the short leash. Dean wasn't showing any signs of annoyance, but both brothers enjoyed, needed, their own space. Living in the confines of the Impala and in small motel rooms didn't leave for a lot of privacy or alone time. And while Sam adored and loved his brother...sometimes a break was a good thing.  
  
And right now, he had a break. Of course, that meant the work was all on him. Of course.  
  
He tossed another newspaper aside and sighed as he picked up another. The title from October 12th, 1940, was bold as it stated, _WOMAN FOUND SLAUGHTERED BY SIDE OF ROAD_. Brutally murdered, the axe that had chopped her up was found right beside her remains. No murderer in custody, but the husband had been the primary suspect at the time.  
  
Sam's insides twisted, but he forced himself to put it in the possibility pile. The last thing either of them needed was another axe murderer in the hotel. “Please, God, let it be someone else,” he muttered.  
  
Dean was probably already talking to the teenagers: Sam had to give him something. He quickly scanned the rest of the newspapers and obituaries, but the best victim he had was the slaughtered woman. Newspapers officially read, he switched over to the registries full of names and dates of the population. The heavy volume was covered in dust, burning his eyes and making him cough as he opened it. Add to that the headache that had come with all his bad misgivings, and Sam was having a great day. Truly.  
  
All of the entries from the beginning of the town's records were hand-written. Sam tugged his laptop closer and opened back up to his search of the city's files. The online search had pulled up names and dates, but no further information. Only a question mark by the death year indicated that something was different. The registries would hopefully give him more information.  
  
Actually, he was hoping that Dean would give him more information. It'd be nice if Dean could give him details. Something like an age, or a time period.  
  
Making sure his phone was on silent, Sam shot his brother a quick text message.  
  
_202 deaths, 1196 disappearances. Narrow it down._  
  
He wandered through more of the registries while he waited. Some of them were teenagers when they went missing, and some of them were very clearly boys, neither of them anything that could be described as a woman. The search engine hadn't allowed him to seek out women only, and sitting in the library, sorting through 1,196 random names, wasn't appealing to him today. He actually didn't want to spend time in the library.  
  
Maybe he was coming down with something.  
  
Just as went to try and feel his forehead, his phone lit up with Dean's response. _Old but not 2 old dress from yesteryear_  
  
Good to know that Dean's texting grammar hadn't gotten any better while Sam's soulless body had been walking around. “Punctuation would go a long way,” he muttered under his breath, glancing around surreptitiously for the librarian. So far, no one had cast him the evil eye.  
  
Dean's idea of “yesteryear” meant he was probably looking at the 1800's, maybe early 1900's. Even as he flipped the pages over to the year 1800, and changed the dates on the search, he couldn't resist shooting Dean another text. _Details help. Also, so does punctuation._  
  
The next text came back pretty fast. _Who the hell takes the time to write that word out?_  
  
_People who like to be understood in a text message, Dean. DETAILS. Correct spelling and using numbers appropriately is a start._ He was bordering on two text messages now in length, and he knew exactly what Dean was going to send back, but it had to be sent.  
  
He got the reply almost as soon as he'd sent his. _U mean not 2 txt like ths?_  
  
Even as Sam's inner grammarian cringed, he couldn't help but grin. That was Dean. As much as had changed between them through the years, he could always count on his big brother to be the Dean he'd looked up to and depended on growing up.  
  
The search came back with only 322 names of missing people this time, only a few murders that actually fit. The deaths only took a few minutes to determine that they didn't fit the category in the slightest. _Anything else?_ Sam asked, not really expecting anything but hoping for any small detail. He couldn't check the registries out of the library, and he honestly really wanted to leave. Dean was probably fed up with the teens, if his constant texting was any indication.  
  
Nothing jumped out at him from the books. Lots of people disappearing near the ocean, a few that just upped and vanished, for no reason at all.  
  
The text, when it came, was a ready relief. _Long flat dress no hoops white lace_  
  
Not a maid, not a servant, but upper class with no hoop skirt? Sam immediately ditched his first registry and settled for the second, and updated his search engine to 1875 and above. The list dropped to 156 people. Better.  
  
Another text came in, the bright light startling him. _You ready?_  
  
“More than,” Sam murmured, but he wasn't, not really. It'd taken far too long to find what little he did have, and he wasn't even done searching. Hell, he hadn't even really started.  
  
He began searching through the book, cross-referencing the names back and forth, slowly eliminating them one by one. The dust from the books wasn't helping, and the screen kept getting brighter every time he looked at it, only making his headache worse. But slowly, surely, the list began to dwindle.  
  
He was down to five names when something fell on his shoulder. Sam whipped around, heart pounding, only to have Dean throw his hands up in surrender. “Easy, tiger,” Dean said softly, but though he grinned, his brow was still furrowed in concern. “You never responded to my text.”  
  
Sam glanced at the clock, surprised to find he'd been digging for close to an hour. “Oh,” he said, wincing. “Sorry.”  
  
Dean snorted, worry lines disappearing into fond amusement. “Geek,” he muttered, but his grin didn't falter. “You ready to bug out?”  
  
“Almost. Down to five names. Well, five names to check, one suspect already in the pile,” Sam said, nodding towards the newspaper he'd found...god, almost three hours ago. Dean reached over him for the paper, and Sam turned back to his registry. Sarah Smythe had been fifty-six when she'd disappeared: another one to check off.  
  
The newspaper fell back onto the table with a loud smack, and several patrons looked over. “If that's who it winds up being, we're handing this off to someone else,” Dean said, looking sick. “Last thing we need is to get locked in with another axe-wielding psycho.”  
  
“Yeah, no kidding,” Sam said, eyes unwillingly moving to the front picture. A tall tree stood in the background of the photograph, with police wandering around the roadside. A white sheet covered the remains, and the bloody axe still stood out in the black and white photograph. He shivered, turning back to the registry.  
  
“You still got a bad feeling about this one?”  
  
“And growing more by the second,” Sam said, shutting the book. “Because that's all the names, unless the kids didn't tell you the truth, and I over-narrowed the search.”  
  
“No, they described her to a tee,” Dean promised. He glared at the newspaper, as if that would help any. “Young woman, mid to late twenties, long dark hair with a bloody white dress. Lace, ankle-length, cuffed sleeves, hair down but not in her face.”  
  
Definitely the earlier part of the 20th century, then. Or the tail end of the 19th. Either way, Sam had searched in the right places. Which meant that none of the names had worked out, and that left them with the woman in the newspaper.  
  
As one they both turned to the innocent looking article on the table. “Dammit,” Sam said with a resigned sigh.  
  
“Shit,” Dean summed up better.  
  
Yeah, this job was going to suck.


	2. The 9 Guests

Dean had to admit, this job wasn't looking as easy as it had before. For one thing, their victim – and they weren't even sure it was her – had been hacked up by an axe murderer. Exactly what they hadn't wanted to deal with. _Again._  
  
Their day of research hadn't been everything Dean had hoped it would be. The kids hadn't been the greatest amount of help, to start. They'd been able to identify the type of dress she'd been wearing, proof that a little bit of mortally fatalistic fear went a long way to preserving the details of one's memory. They'd all agreed on her dress, which had also been a point in their favor. Then they'd started squabbling amongst themselves about inane things, like the décor in the house, and Dean had started annoying Sam with texts. Always made for a good time. Beyond the dress details that Sam prompted him to ask, Dean didn't really get anywhere. Unfortunately, the best witness to what she'd done was still weaving in and out of unconsciousness, due in part to his head trauma and the drugs he was on for pain.  
  
Not that Dean had had a chance of getting close to Joel Green, anyway. Not with his big brother Nathan right there. “Look, you got what you wanted from us,” Nathan had told him, crossing his arms. “You don't need to bug my little brother.”  
  
He'd been right about that, at least. No way a thirteen year old tagged along with a bunch of older teenagers unless he had an in, like an older sibling. “Trust me, I get it,” Dean had told him quietly. “You're the big brother. Little brother got hurt on your watch while you guys were messing around in the house. I'm a big brother too, so believe me, I definitely feel you. But if you want me to help, I need to know everything. Did you see her at all?”  
  
Nathan had bit his lip but nodded. “Right behind Joel on the staircase. I...I was down near the door. Joel's never been able to run as fast as me, I should've stayed with him. But then she was right behind him and I shouted and he turned around and then she pushed him. He went...he went all the way down the stairs.” He'd swallowed hard and looked away. “We had to carry him out. He wouldn't wake up.”  
  
 _That_ hadn't been a fun image. Little brothers not waking up was definitely too recent a memory for Dean. He'd told the kids he'd be in touch, shot a text message to Sam asking if he was ready, and then left the hospital. He'd planned on a coffee to celebrate dealing with the teens, and maybe getting Sam one, too.  
  
Except Sam hadn't answered his text. Dean had kept waiting and waiting, and no answer showed. And considering he'd had Sam, seizing and then unconscious, on his mind, of _course_ he'd started thinking of the worst possible scenario as to why he hadn't answered. Coffee hadn't happened as he'd changed course and raced for the library.  
  
The brat had been fine. Giving himself a headache and completely engrossed in his research, but not seizing, not scratching at the Wall, not unconscious. Jumpy, but given the article he'd come across as their best suspect, that was to be suspected. Hell, Dean felt jumpy about it.  
  
He was starting to think that Sam was right, that the case was going to suck. Their ghost hadn't been exactly identified, which meant they were heading in with little to no luck as to what to search for.  
  
Sam was getting that pinched look on his face, and he was squinting a little too much when he looked at the computer screen. Still trying to find answers, anything to keep them from going in blind. Without a word Dean dug through Sam's duffel and pulled out the migraine medication, whistled low, and tossed it Sam's way when his little brother looked up. Sam fumbled the catch, and _that_ left Dean more than wary right there.  
  
“I'm fine,” Sam insisted before Dean could say anything. “Just a headache, Dean.” He did pop two of the pills, though, without fighting him on it. All signs that Sam was in serious amounts of pain and not willing to own up to it.  
  
“We're not going anywhere until that headache of yours clears,” Dean said firmly. “If something bad happens-”  
  
“I'll keep the pills on me,” Sam said, just as determined as Dean. “Can we get back to what may be the worst decision on a case we've ever made?”  
  
“Did you find anything new?”  
  
“No. The only thing I could find was that our sliced up victim, Susie Marquette, was found on the road not too far from the retreat. That's not on the retreat property, though, but two miles out.”  
  
Still way too much difference in space for a spirit. “Maybe she was killed on the property, then dragged to the road for someone to find?” Dean hypothesized, but Sam only shrugged his shoulders.  
  
Great. If Dean saw any hint of the spirit holding an axe, they were out of there. “You okay to go now?” Dean asked, glancing at the clock. Between the kids and the library, they'd taken up more of the day than they'd expected. Already the sky was starting to look pink.  
  
In response, Sam closed up his laptop and stood, though slowly and with his eyes shut. “We're scanning the house,” Dean told him. “And that's _it_. We're back here by eight, no later, with pizza for me and a sandwich or soup for you. You'll sleep the migraine off, and we'll handle it all tomorrow.”  
  
Sam didn't argue, though Dean had several ready replies for him if he had. Instead they gathered up everything – including the larger poltergeist banishing kit in their bags, because there was no way they were leaving them in the car this time – and slowly drove across town. The sun was still bright and blinding in the sky, giving everything in the town a cheerful tint of gold and rose colored hues. It even decorated the clean, white outside of the retreat, making the whole scene picturesque.  
  
Which was where they stood now: a quarter after five in the warming air of Beaufort, South Carolina, gazing at the well lit Huckston Retreat. The glow from the sun behind them made it look like there were lights on inside the house, and Dean was pretty certain that unlike the last haunted hotel, this one would have working power on their side.  
  
Except that as a cold breeze blew across the way, right down Dean's jacket, he realized that it wasn't just the sun. There _were_ lights on inside.  
  
“Oh god, not again,” Sam moaned, and Dean cursed vehemently beneath his breath. “If there's more than one ghost-”  
  
“There's cars,” Dean told him, though honestly that wasn't much of a consolation, because there were _cars_ , plural, leaving them stuck with multiple civilians. God _dammit_. “We go inside fast, while we still have daylight, tell them we're investigative journalists looking to check the place out on account of the kids getting hurt, and we'll be fine.” Sure they would.  
  
“We can't take the bags in with us,” Sam said, which Dean absolutely hated, but fuck, they didn't have a choice. In and out, super fast, and then they'd come back out for the bags.  
  
“Take what you can, just in case,” Dean cautioned, but Sam was already reaching for his piece and shoving it into his jeans. Dean grabbed his own and his EMF detector, tucking it into his front pocket. He slammed his door and took off for the front entrance of the retreat. The porch was wide and covered the entire front of the retreat, with beautiful white rocking chairs laid out to watch the beautiful outdoors.   
  
At least this place was better groomed than the Ocean House Hotel. And so far, it didn't seem to have a fifth floor. Points in its favor already.  
  
Dean reached the door first, listening intently for any sounds inside. If there was anything, he could've sworn he heard laughter and music. What the hell?  
  
“What is it?” Sam asked, just as the door popped open. A young man with dark hair stood behind it, a beer bottle in his right hand. He seemed just as surprised to see them as they were to see him, but then his face brightened.  
  
“You must be Leroy Hutchinson! With a...guest?”  
  
He turned to Sam as he asked about the 'guest', which meant Dean had to play his part. Lovely. “Yeah, sorry, hope it's okay to bring a plus one,” Dean joked, offering his biggest grin. “Listen, about the...party...?”  
  
“Oh no worries man, we're just getting started,” the man said, offering his hand. “I'm Daniel Perks, your humble host for the evening. Congratulations on winning, by the way! I guess the contest didn't really make it clear about bringing friends or 'plus ones' with you for your free night's stay, but if you're okay sharing the room with, uh, your friend...?”  
  
“Sam,” Sam said immediately, offering his hand out with a tight smile. “And we can share the room, not a problem.”  
  
Daniel brightened at that. “Great! Come on in! It's supposed to storm tonight, so get your stuff in sooner rather than later.” He turned and headed back inside before Dean could move to stop him.  
  
An opening party. It was a goddamn _party_ with what looked like at least half a dozen people all milling around in a beautiful lobby, and how they hell were they going to get them all out?  
  
“Crap,” Sam muttered beside him. “Think there's a fire alarm we can pull anywhere?”  
  
“Don't know that it would do any good, but maybe,” Dean said hopefully. “We gotta get everyone out, and now. We'll come back later, but for right now...”  
  
As one they stepped inside, though Dean noticed that Sam carefully didn't shut the door behind them. Dean began mingling with everyone, nodding smiles and throwing out random greetings to the people he passed. The stairway that led up to the second floor was winding in a southern charm way, curling from the middle of the room up to the left and then ending at the second floor. White wooden banisters were carved and nearly gleaming, making the slightly wider than usual stairway a welcoming entry to the second floor. Dean surreptitiously put one foot on the stairs, letting out a small sigh of relief when it didn't creak beneath him.  
  
This place was _not_ the Ocean House Hotel. No one had died in it; there was just a small ghost problem, and she hadn't killed anyone yet. They could find her and handle her, first by getting the civilians out.  
  
He glanced back at the crowd, taking in faces and stances. Everyone seemed calm and relaxed, happy, enjoying themselves. They were a mixed variety of people, from women to men, young to middle aged. Everyone was dressed neatly, leaving Dean and Sam sticking out like sore thumbs. Only one of the women was wearing a cocktail dress; the other women were dressed in slacks or designer jeans.  
  
Sam appeared at his right side, lips pinched tight. “I count nine people total, all a mixed bag.”  
  
“Yeah, that's about where I was at,” Dean said, pitching his voice low. “We need to get them out. Fire alarms?”  
  
“I see a few, but I can't see where to activate them,” Sam said, and yeah, he looked just as pissed off as he sounded. “I think they still need to be installed.”  
  
The place didn't look entirely finished, now that Dean really looked at it. There were still a few construction tools laying about, now that Dean looked it over. There were a few tables full of drinks and hors d'oeuvres on the slightly dusty floor, though the tablecloths were pristine. Some of the furniture in the lobby, like chairs and sofas, were covered in dust cloths. So not complete, yet. Which meant that fire alarms probably weren't in yet, and probably hadn't been inspected yet, anyway.  
  
Shit.  
  
“Any other plans?” Sam asked, eyes locked on the opposite side of the room. Dean followed his gaze to the front doors, which were gently swaying with the breeze from outside. Yeah, probably had a storm on their hands. That was all.  
  
Wasn't making Dean any less nervous.  
  
“Tell them we're fire marshals, need to check the place out,” Dean said firmly. “We got a call that someone could smell smoke coming from the retreat, we need everyone out until tomorrow.”  
  
“You honestly think we can handle a ghost overnight?”  
  
That was _not_ on Dean's agenda at all. “We'll handle her tomorrow morning. We just need them out of here. Or we could create an emergency of some type-”  
  
“Oh my god! He's choking!”  
  
“Thanks for the jinx, asshole,” Sam threw his direction before they took off to the right side of the room near the tables. One of the men was indeed grasping at his throat and making horrific choking noises, eyes getting wider by the second. His legs gave out just as Sam and Dean reached him, sending all three of them down to the floor amidst gasps and small shrieks of panic.  
  
“Call 911!” Dean shouted, reaching to help Sam haul the man to sitting, but Sam was already arranging the man on the floor. The man's eyes were rolling back in his head, still filled with terror, even as Sam pulled his jaw down to search for a foreign object. Not finding any, he ran through the ABC's of CPR, breathing two shallow breaths before checking for a pulse. “Go,” he told Dean, and Dean began pressing on the man's chest.  
  
Silence fell on the room, the only sounds being Sam's harsh breathing and Dean's timed pants as he kept pushing on the man's chest. After the fourth round, Dean sat back, watching as Sam frantically searched for breathing or a pulse again. “Stop,” Dean managed when Sam bent down to breathe again. Sam was gasping for air worse than he was, and his face was starting to lose color. “No more, Sammy.”  
  
Sam's face twisted up in grief before he fell back on his knees, still trying to pull air into his lungs. “Oh god, is he dead?” one of the other men asked, face devoid of any color. “Is he really _dead_?”  
  
Great. A corpse and they hadn't even found the ghost yet. “Where's the ambulance?” Dean answered instead. “What's their ETA?”  
  
“I...I can't get reception,” one of the women said, voice breaking as she stared at the body. “I tried to find a working phone here but they...they don't work.”  
  
Dean pulled his phone out from his pocket, watching the tower symbol in the top corner of his screen try desperately to seek for a signal. NO SIGNAL finally buzzed across the phone. “Dammit,” Dean growled. “That's it. Everyone get outside, _now_.”  
  
The doors slammed shut. A few screams went up, and everyone raced to the doors at the same time. Sam pushed himself up from the floor, wobbling slightly until Dean rushed up to grab him. “Easy,” Dean murmured. “You all right?”  
  
“Be fine,” Sam managed, and as much as Dean wanted to let him sit down and catch his breath, it couldn't happen right then. Because right then, they were faced with nine – sorry, make that eight – civilians that were now officially locked in a haunted hotel. _Again_.  
  
“Should've brought the...the bags in,” Sam wheezed, and Dean froze. In a haunted hotel. Only one gun on them each, with two EMF detectors. _Fuck_.  
  
“The doors won't open!” someone cried out, and Dean moved over towards the doors to try a hand at it himself. Sam met him on the other side, and they tugged and kicked and pushed until Dean was out of breath again. Nothing. Officially locked in.  
  
“There has to be another exit out onto the grounds,” a man's voice reasoned.  
  
“The windows,” a young female voice piped up. “What about the windows?”  
  
The group moved around to the big bay windows, quickly trying in vain to shove them open. Sam moved to help, but Dean moved faster and caught his brother by the arm. Sam whirled around, bewildered, but Dean only pursed his lips, determined. _We're not getting split up this time,_ Dean thought to himself, and some of it must've reflected in his eyes, because Sam stopped tugging at his arm to get free. No way was Dean letting his brother out of his sight. Not like he had at the Ocean House Hotel.  
  
Not like he had when Sam had disappeared into that god forsaken Pit with Lucifer.  
  
“Nothing's opening,” someone yelled from farther down the lobby. Dean hadn't realized how big it was until he realized it was four bay windows long on each side of the front doors, which were already massive. “God, why won't they open?”  
  
“Probably still taped from...from construction,” Sam called out. His voice was hoarse, but he had enough strength to be heard across the echoing room, and people reluctantly stepped away from the windows.  
  
“We could break them down,” Dean suggested, but one of the women approaching quickly shook her head. Her blonde hair was tucked back in a neat ponytail, and Dean was suddenly back at the Ocean House Hotel, watching another young blonde follow them every step of the way.  
  
“Not likely. Here, they'll be strong storm windows, built to try and outlast a hurricane. We'd do better finding another door out of here.” She glanced around nervously, seemingly ignorant to Dean's sudden apprehension. “I don't understand why the doors won't open, though. The wind doesn't look that bad outside. I mean, there's still sun...”  
  
She wandered away to join the rest of the group, and behind him, Sam let out a small sigh of relief. “You know who she looks like?” Sam mumbled, and Dean absolutely hated this.  
  
They had barely any weapons between them, no salt, one small flask of holy water tucked in Dean's pocket, two EMF detectors, and that was it. His small knife he usually kept in his boots was back in the bag, having just been cleaned. The rest of their ammo, the shotgun with the salt shells, their freakin' _lighters_ were all out in the trunk of the Impala. Dean glanced through one of the pristine bay windows with longing at his car. There was still enough light to see her, and that spurred him on. There had to be another way out. No way were they getting stuck in another goddamn haunted hotel.  
  
“Do we tell them?”  
  
Dean glanced back over his shoulder at Sam. His brother's face was gaining color, but he still looked too pale. His breathing was almost even, though, and Dean was gonna have to be thankful for small favors at this point. “Tell them?” Dean asked in an equally hushed tone.  
  
“About the ghost,” Sam said quietly. “Do we warn them or not?”  
  
Warning them would cause panic, but at least keep everyone alert. Not telling them would leave them in the dark, but focused on the here and now and the fact that they couldn't arm themselves against the ghost, anyway, because any and all ammo that even civilians could use was _out in the car_.  
  
“Leave them be for now,” Dean said softly. Everyone looked freaked out but fairly calm, searching around for a working phone, gazing at the body on the floor, or pounding at the windows ineffectually. It wasn't mindless terror.  
  
“If we lose track of one of them, you know they could wind up hurt or worse,” Sam reasoned, and while telling them wasn't a great idea at the moment, there was no sense in being stupid about it. Dean glanced around for a place that would hold everyone and immediately found a large room off from the lobby, the doors wide open. It had numerous seats and quite a few bookshelves, and looked like a study room or library of a sort. It was big and had doors that shut. One easy entrance and exit, from what Dean could see. Easier to defend.  
  
He turned back to the group and gave a shrill whistle that made everyone look his way. “Why don't we try and put our heads together...together,” he finished lamely, nodding towards the library. “There's lots of places to sit in there.”  
  
Slowly everyone moved past them into the library. “We need salt,” Sam said, apparently having followed Dean's train of thought.  
  
“One step at a time,” Dean told him. “One step at a time.” They'd sit down and talk, or in Sam's case, sit down and rest, and then figure out their next step from there. He moved with the group into the room, watching people move around to various places. Several of the men leaned against bookshelves, leaving the chairs for the women. The woman in the cocktail dress sat down on the sofa with a grateful sigh, letting her head lean back and rest. The blonde with the ponytail opted to stand and pace near the doors, which Dean carefully shut one at the time. They clicked shut with a tiny sound, barely there, and no one seemed to notice except the blonde, who quickly dismissed him in order to pace.  
  
Daniel, their 'host', couldn't seem to sit still either. As long as they were together, Dean figured now would be a good time to share and care. “So, Daniel,” he said, and the young man stopped restlessly walking to glance up at him. Dean stepped forward into the middle of the room, keeping his gaze on Daniel. Daniel still looked bewildered, but under Dean's predatory gaze opted to lean back against the wall. “What exactly is going on here?”  
  
“Why our phones don't work out here is what I'd like to know,” one of the men on the opposite side of the room asked, interrupting Daniel as the young man started to speak. He looked older than Dean, but not quite in a middle-aged state yet, not like the obviously older gentleman who'd taken the seat the blonde had left open. “Why wouldn't the doors open?”  
  
Then the one thing Dean hadn't wanted to happen happened.  
  
The lights flickered briefly and went out.


	3. The 8th Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locked in with a group of civilians and one already dead, and night beginning to fall, the chances of their ghost making an appearance increases. And they may lose yet another before night officially falls...

Sam didn't realize he was holding his breath until the lights came back on, and he let out a long shuddering exhale. Everyone else had frozen in place as well, eyes looking up at the lights above and around them. Only Dean moved, head whipping around to where Sam was with a hint of fear in his eyes. Making sure Sam was still there.  
  
Yeah, because he hadn't lost Sam recently at all. No, this place was going to do wonders for Dean's urge to put a leash and bell on his brother. Lovely.  
  
One of the girls shifted uncomfortably in her seat and let out a nervous giggle. “That was weird,” she said, tucking her long, dark hair behind her ear. “It's not even really storming out yet.”  
  
“Pretty windy, though, Monica,” Daniel “The Host” said, who'd moved from the wall to behind Monica. Sam frowned until he saw Monica reach back to take Daniel's hand. Oh. They definitely hadn't looked like a couple earlier, but he supposed Daniel had been playing host. Now, though, her darker hand wrapped in his pale one, they looked every bit of the frightened couple who were determined to hold on to each other and not let go.  
  
No one else in the group seemed to be gravitating towards someone else, and of the five people in the room, everyone was pretty much keeping to themselves besides Monica and Daniel.  
  
Wait a minute. Five?  
  
“Where did the others go?” the other girl asked, sitting up straight in her seat. The older man sitting near her also began to look around, eyes wide. “We're missing people-”  
  
“Clara, calm down,” Daniel said, starting to look anxious again himself. “I-I'm sure they're fine.”  
  
Dean cursed and headed for the main doors, the doors which he'd shut, the doors that were now slightly ajar. Great. “Everyone stay in the room,” Dean ordered before he cautiously opened one door to peer out into the lobby. Sam made his way over to Dean and glanced out as well. Nothing but a well-lit lobby, empty besides the tables full of food on the other side. No people at all.  
  
Including the body.  
  
“Shit,” Dean cursed under his breath, then stepped out after making sure Sam was at his side. Sam followed, carefully closing the door behind him. The gleaming tiles beneath his feet only made the headache worse, shoving light straight through his eyeballs. Not that the flickering lights had done any good, either. They'd reminded him too much of the blackness he'd find himself in down below, the flames flickering closer and closer until-  
  
A hand caught his arm and turned him around, startling him from his thoughts. Dean was up close and in his face, looking nine types of worried. “You okay?” he asked.  
  
Sam made a face. “I'll be fine,” he said. It was the truth, provided they made it out of the house alive. It didn't mean he was fine right at the moment, but he wasn't lying to Dean at least.  
  
Dean pursed his lips, hearing the half-truth for what it was. “You still got the migraine medication on you?” he asked instead.  
  
“Yeah, but I can only take it every four to six hours,” Sam replied. The bottle sat in his jacket pocket, small and silent. Sam wasn't about to tell his brother that he only had enough for two more doses, and that was if he spread it thin. He hadn't needed them since he'd seen behind the Wall, and even thinking about it was making his skin crawl. That tiny flashback was enough to put all of his nerves on edge.  
  
“We need to find the others,” Sam said, focusing on the case and not his headache, which his rescue breathing hadn't helped. Any help that the medication might've given went out the window the minute he started getting light-headed and out of breath. And he hadn't saved the man in the end, anyway.  
  
Had the ghost killed him? Had she made him choke on something? It made more sense, as Sam hadn't found any sort of foreign object anywhere in the man's throat. That didn't mean that there hadn't been one, obviously, but it had still made Sam pause for thought.  
  
“Yeah, and the body,” Dean said. “The one that used to be right over there and now isn't.”  
  
Sam took a deep breath and waited a split second, because he knew exactly what Dean was going to say about this, but... “Easier to split up and find them-”  
  
“Since _when_ has it been easier for us to split up, Sam?” Dean cut in, glaring at him. “No. Not an option.”  
  
“You know, as grown men, you'd think it wouldn't be an issue,” Sam pointed out, but honestly, he'd only put the idea out because someone had to. Splitting up didn't end well for them. Ever.  
  
Dean snorted and moved forward into the lobby, and Sam stayed right next to him. “We're Winchesters,” Dean said, glancing around. “Everything easy is always an issue.”  
  
Sam made a face, silently agreeing, and looked around. It wasn't like the Ocean House Hotel in terms of space. While there was only a second floor, the entire resort was wide. The library they'd come from was the first room on the right from the entrance, with a hallway that ran behind it. There were other rooms beyond the stairs, things that looked like a ballroom, a game room, a large dining room. No expense had been spared, obviously.  
  
The hallway ran all the way from the right side of the resort to the left. The front desk, right behind the food tables on the left, also had what looked like a small office behind it. There were more rooms to the left, rooms that Sam couldn't make out from where they stood. All in all, there were a ton of rooms to explore and try to find three missing people.  
  
That was just the first floor.  
  
“I bet there's a kitchen,” Dean said, and even as Sam started to comment on the multitude of food before him on the tables, he realized what his brother was saying.  
  
“I bet they have a bit of salt, too.”  
  
“That's what I'm hoping.”  
  
“And if it's not stocked yet?” Sam asked. Dean flinched but said nothing, and Sam hated being the devil's advocate, and god, thinking about the devil was _not_ a good idea at the moment.  
  
“We'll figure it out,” Dean said finally a minute or two later. “Don't be such a Debbie Downer.”  
  
It was a lame insult, but it was better than what Sam had been thinking of. He let out a small, relieved laugh. “Yeah, thanks. I'll do my best.”  
  
A muffled thud from behind the desk caught their attention, and Sam reached instinctively for his piece at the small of his back. God but they were practically naked, with very limited ammo, no flashlights, no lighters, no _salt_ , and no way to call out for help. He pulled his gun out and stepped into line behind Dean as they headed towards the darkened office.  
  
The door was partially open, and from inside, they could hear the sliding of something being dragged, the distinctive brushing of fabric. Dean glanced back at Sam, and Sam gave a curt nod. He had iron rounds in his gun: it wouldn't take their ghost out, but it'd make her disperse for a bit, at least. Dean nodded his head three times and they slid inside the office, the door flying open and cracking against the wall.  
  
Surprised gasps were heard in the dark, and Sam shoved his gun somewhere it wouldn't be seen before reaching blindly for a light switch. Lamps came on around the room, revealing their three missing guests and the body laid out in front of them. “The hell are you all doing?” Dean demanded.  
  
One of the men glared at them. “We wanted Landon somewhere that he wouldn't be disturbed,” he said. “The dead deserve respect.”  
  
“Yeah, and the living should stay together,” Dean tossed back, glaring right back at the guy. Sam held back from rolling his eyes and stepped forward, instantly drawing Dean's attention.  
  
“Look, wandering off right now is not a good idea. Next time, tell someone: if something happens to you, we'll at least know where to start looking, okay?”  
  
The man grumbled but subsided. The blonde girl and the other man pulled out a white tablecloth and carefully laid it over the body – Landon – as best they could. “He was freaking people out,” the blonde said, and god, Sam needed her name before he started calling her Bethany. “We couldn't just leave him out there.”  
  
“Just tell us where you're going next time...?”  
  
“Amanda,” she said in response to Sam's question. “I'm Amanda. That's Paul, and Theodore,” she said, her last gesture towards the man who was still glaring at them.  
  
“It's Teddy,” Theodore corrected. “I hate my name. And I hate this whole damn shindig: I want out of here. Why aren't we heading towards another exit?”  
  
“Because we need to do it as a group: splitting up doesn't get us anywhere,” Dean said, giving Teddy a tight grin. “Are we done?”  
  
The lights went out again. Sam inhaled sharply, other senses trying to compensate for his sight. He could hear the others breathing deeply, could smell the food just outside the door of the office. Then something brushed against his arm, and even before the raspy sound of a rough jacket slid against his own, Sam knew who was standing right beside him. Despite the situation, Sam found himself relaxing just slightly, with his brother literally at his side.  
  
The lights came back on about ten seconds later, and Amanda immediately stood. “This is getting ridiculous,” she said, lips pinched and expression screaming pissed off and scared. “The hell does the power keep shorting out?”  
  
“Let's just get back to the other group,” Paul suggested. “We've done what we can for Landon.”  
  
“We need to call 911,” Teddy insisted. “We need the coroner out here, the police-”  
  
“What do you think this is, CSI?” Amanda snapped. “He choked on something, we tried to save him, power's not working, there's no cell reception, which, by the way, is pissing me off.”  
  
And scaring her shitless, but she was hiding it pretty well, Sam figured. “It's pissing everyone off,” Dean told her. “Place is big enough, maybe we'll find reception somewhere else.”  
  
Not likely, but explaining _that_ to them would be a nightmare. “Let's go back and join up with the others, and then we'll figure things out,” Sam said. “Landon's taken care of, let's focus on us, okay?”  
  
Dean leaned his head out the door and shouted across the lobby, “We found the others,” before turning back to the group. “Have you guys explored this place at all? If there's a kitchen, maybe?”  
  
All three of them shook their heads. “I think an exit's more important than food,” Teddy said disdainfully.  
  
“Kitchens need to get supplies in, so they usually have a door of their own,” Amanda said shortly before Sam could respond. “Stop being such a damn dick about it. None of us like this, but we just need to get help and we'll be fine.”  
  
No, they'd be fine if they could get everyone out before the ghost showed up. Sam glanced at his watch and bit his lip. 7:11. Great. With the storm rolling in and the sun probably set to go down soon anyway, the ghost could show up any minute, if she hadn't already.  
  
“What time is it?” Dean whispered, pitching his voice low enough that only Sam could hear. Sam rolled his watch towards Dean and watched his brother make a face. “We've got until about eight. Then it's officially night time, and then we're screwed.”  
  
“Where are the others?” Paul asked, and Sam realized that no one had answered them back. He shared a glance with Dean, then slowly turned to look out into the lobby. Empty. The doors at the other end were closed.  
  
“You guys all right?” he shouted, startling himself with the intensity of the echo. No way in hell they hadn't heard that, or Dean's earlier shout. But just like last time, no one answered. “Dammit,” he muttered under his breath.  
  
“Time to go,” Dean said, and the others moved this time, and quickly. Their shoes made echoing taps across the tile, and Sam caught his brother wincing at the sound. He hung back from the rest of the group, knowing Dean would follow suit. Dean hastily slowed his pace to keep up with Sam. “What's the matter, Sam?”  
  
“So far, no axes,” he said, voice pitched low for Dean, and Dean snorted.  
  
“Yeah, and the stairs don't creak. Why do hotels have to do tiled lobbies? The hell's wrong with carpet? Or wood?”  
  
“You realize that besides babysitting the eight people left, we still have to find the ghost?” Sam mentioned as casually as he could. Dean still cursed, again. It wasn't like Sam didn't like it anymore than Dean did. “There's only two floors to search. Well, that and probably a basement, too.”  
  
“Oh god, please don't let it be the basement,” Dean moaned. “Don't make me have to go down to the basement.”  
  
Yeah, Sam wasn't looking so forward to that, either.  
  
The others were stepping back into the room, forcing Sam and Dean to quickly catch up. They slid inside and shut the doors, finding the others pretty much where they'd been before. The woman in the cocktail dress looked like she was sleeping sitting upright on the sofa, and Daniel was sitting on the armrest of Monica's chair. The older gentleman immediately rose to offer Amanda his seat, but Amanda shook her head with a small smile, letting him sit back down.  
  
“Okay kids, time to find our way out of here,” Dean said, catching everyone's attention except the woman on the sofa. Dean frowned, glancing at her. “Is she seriously asleep?”  
  
“God, I wish I was,” Monica said. She sat up and went over to the sofa, bending over to tap the woman on the shoulder. “Devina? Devina, we're gonna try and find a way out. Do you want to stay here, or come with us?”  
  
It was like watching a horror film. Monica tapped Devina one more time, a little harder, and Devina slid over to the right and kept on sliding down. Monica screamed and backed away so fast she almost tripped. Everyone immediately jumped up, collective gasps and shrieks echoing around the room. Sam stared at the woman on the sofa, unable to move. She still looked like she was asleep, but her eyelids were slightly parted, enough to show a vacant gaze beneath them.  
  
Dean slowly moved forward, fingers to her pulse point. “Dead,” he called out softly. “She's dead.”  
  
More shrieks and whimpers of fright followed, and Sam met Dean's gaze over the sofa. One body, an accident. Two bodies, in the space of one evening? A freak coincidence.  
  
Except the Winchesters didn't believe in coincidences.  
  
“She...no!” Daniel shouted, looking paler by the second. “Sh-She just fell asleep for a second!”  
  
“Oh god,” Monica whispered, and when Sam looked up, she was backing away from the sofa, hands clutching at her face in fear. “This is a literary nightmare come true, I swear to god-”  
  
“What are we going to do?” Teddy asked, voice loud and scared, before Sam could fully process just what the hell Monica had said. “We've got two dead bodies trapped with us in the house-”  
  
As soon as he said 'trapped', the noise level went up. Everyone began yelling and whimpering, begging for a way out, shouting that they couldn't stay, and that was enough. Sam only had to share a look with Dean to know that the decision was out of their hands now. Two bodies meant they had to come forward with the truth.  
  
“Hey!” Sam bellowed above the noise, and immediately everyone fell silent. Every single gaze in the room fell on him, and Sam swallowed at the sudden attention. “Listen to us, and we'll get you out of here safely, all right?”  
  
“Safely?” Amanda said, eyebrows raised. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”  
  
“It means safe and alive with the ghost running around,” Dean said, and Sam had never been more thankful for his loud-mouthed brother who was willing to take over.  
  
Silence greeted his statement before Teddy began to laugh. “Oh my god, this is great,” he said, except he was gearing up towards hysteria. “Ghosts?”  
  
“Just one,” Dean said, glaring at him. “Two bodies, one night, is way too much of a coincidence. She almost killed someone the other day-”  
  
“She?” Amanda said, wide-eyed. “Great. I'm locked in with two psychos.”  
  
In that moment, Sam realized that arming them against the spirit wasn't going to be the hardest part. No, getting them to believe them was going to be the hardest. “Listen, we're trying to keep you all alive-”  
  
“There's no such thing as ghosts!” Monica exclaimed. At least she didn't look terrified anymore, but she was keeping her distance from everyone. “They just...just died, that's all! Maybe Devina had a heart problem, and seeing Landon die was too much!”  
  
Sam looked incredulously from Monica to Devina's prone body and then back up. Devina looked as though she'd been in excellent physical condition, tan and blonde and the perfect beach bunny. Monica blushed but said nothing further.  
  
“This is ridiculous-”  
  
“You couldn't let them die in peace, seriously, you have to bring ghost stories into this-”  
  
“Of all the dumb-ass things I've ever heard-”  
  
“It's true.”  
  
Daniel's softly worded sentence brought everyone else's loud tones to silence. Daniel swallowed, eyes locked on Devina's body with resigned fear in his eyes. “I...I know the kids that came into the house a few days ago. Joel Green, the one who got hurt? They're neighbors of mine.” He glanced up at the group, who no longer looked as dismissive as they had a few minutes before. “His older brother told me they all saw a woman in an old dress. It's a local legend: she died out here on the property back in the 1940's, and she haunted the land and passerbys on the road. I guess...” He shuddered. “I guess she's haunting the resort. I didn't believe it, but then Joel got hurt and...”  
  
No one said anything for a long time. Sam glanced up at Dean, who looked equally as startled by the information. _You find anything?_ Dean mouthed. Sam slowly shook his head. Nothing about this had come up in his search of Beaufort.  
  
Local legend was just a fancy name for a town secret. Exactly what had nearly gotten them killed in the Ocean House Hotel. No one had been willing to tell the truth, and William had been left to kill his victims every night.  
  
Amanda was the first to speak, and it was much more subdued than her earlier tirade. “What keeps a ghost away?” she asked softly. “Anything?”  
  
“Salt,” Sam said. “We need salt. If we can line up the doors in here, we'll be fine.”  
  
“You mean both doors?” Clara said from her seat, short brown hair being nervously twisted between her fingers. Sam frowned until he realized what she meant. There was another opening out of the room into the long hallway he'd seen before. There were hinges set in the walls, waiting for doors to hang, but the doors obviously hadn't been mounted yet. Tiny last minute details.  
  
Dean muttered something unflattering under his breath, but Sam heard it loud and clear. They were screwed. With no door, it'd be harder to keep her out.  
  
“We're not safe here, are we?” Paul said, and everyone whipped their heads over to the open door.  
  
“We need salt,” Sam repeated. “The best place would be the kitchen. Does anyone know where it is?”  
  
Daniel timidly raised his hand, like a school kid caught messing around in class. Dean rolled his eyes but pointed to him. “The, uh, other side of the house,” he said. “To the left. Way left.”  
  
Of course it was on the other side of the house. If he could get it quick, while the lights stayed on, then he'd be fine. He hoped. Every second they wasted put them that much closer to either losing power from the oncoming storm or losing power from the spirit getting stronger as the night went on. “I'll be right back,” Sam said, heading towards the doors. Easier to go out into the lobby that he'd scoped out earlier with Dean.  
  
A hand grabbed his arm, hard, and Sam found Dean suddenly right there. “Not a chance in hell,” Dean swore angrily, but Sam heard the fear behind it.  
  
“We need the salt-”  
  
“I need my little brother in one piece-”  
  
The lights flickered and the power went out, but a sudden spike of lightning from outside lit up everything. A scream resounded in the darkness after the lightning vanished, and the hairs on the back of Sam's neck went up.  
  
The lights went on again, and Sam looked around wildly until he saw Clara standing near her chair, trembling and holding one hand up towards the open doors. “Th-There was a woman,” she gasped out, her face pure white and bloodless. “A woman in white-”  
  
Everyone's heads whipped towards the hallway, a hallway that was completely vacant, dark, and empty. Sam swallowed hard and felt Dean's hand grip even tighter.  
  
“She was covered in blood,” Clara whispered. “God, it was dripping-”  
  
A clock somewhere in the room began to chime, startling everyone. Sam quickly found it up on one of the bookshelves, chiming slowly. After the eighth chime, it stopped, and the bottom of Sam's stomach went out.  
  
Eight o'clock. They were well into evening, and if the ghost wanted to come out and play in the dark, then she could, and would. They were out of time.


	4. The 7th Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another person falls victim to the ghost, and the pattern becomes clearer. The only question remains: who dies next?

The last chime echoed in the room, the ticking of the clock suddenly too loud where it hadn't even been heard before. Everyone seemed frozen in time, unable to do anything except watch the clock in horror. None of them really knew what it meant, but if they took a look at Dean's face, they'd know it wasn't good.  
  
Sure enough, Clara glanced their way and turned a little more pale. “That's it, I'm getting out of here,” she declared in a loud, trembling voice, racing for the exit with the doors. The rest of the group quickly moved to follow her, and Sam's wide eyes over the crowd said they were two seconds away from a stampede, and god knew where they'd go.  
  
Dean quickly shoved himself in front of the doors, arms out wide. “Woah, woah! Just calm down, okay?”  
  
“We have to get out of here!” Teddy yelled. “We can't just _stay_ , man!”  
  
“Agreed, but if you go out there now, we'll all wind up dead,” Dean warned. “If we stay together, we'll make it.”  
  
“Staying together makes us slower,” the older gentleman said, inserting his opinion for the first time. He nodded his head towards Dean. “But it also makes us more difficult to separate. Harrison. Harrison Marshall, attorney at law.”  
  
Good to know they had _someone_ on their side, someone with a shred of common sense. “Good points all. We stay together,” Dean said.  
  
“But we'd move faster on our own-”  
  
“Does _anyone_ in here watch horror films?” Amanda called out above Daniel's panicked voice. “Seriously? Wandering off is the first thing the first victims do.” She pinched her lips, meeting Dean's gaze. “I don't like this,” she admitted, “but they're right. We have to stay together.”  
  
“I'm not staying in here with Devina and that...that _woman_ ,” Clara choked out. Voices quickly raised in agreement, and Dean held up his hands to call for silence. Not that he blamed them for wanting to stay as far away from the dead body as possible, but chaos wasn't going to help.  
  
“Then we'll get out of here and try to find another exit, a safer place to stay. _Together_.” He reached back for the doors, already knowing that Sam wouldn't be far behind him. “Everyone keep your eyes peeled and stay together. You see anything, _anything_ , and you say something. I don't care if you saw a purple cat with a wide ass grin. I'll ask you what you're tripping on after.”  
  
No one laughed. “God, tough crowds in haunted hotels,” he muttered, but turned to face the doors. There were still whispers and scared voices behind him, too much white noise that he couldn't hear if there was anything else out in the lobby. No _tap, tap, tap_. He gritted his teeth but quickly twisted the door handles and flung one open.  
  
Nothing. The trees outside the big bay windows were starting to wave wildly, and there was a tiny tinkling sound against the glass panes. It was just the rain, he knew that, but looking around the lobby, he wasn't half sure some of it wasn't the quiet tread of ghostly feet on the tiles, either.  
  
“Everyone move,” Dean said in a low voice. Like silent school children the group followed, eyes wide and watching every shadow.  
  
As lame as Dean had thought Teddy, Paul, and Amanda's efforts regarding the body were earlier, he was grateful now that it wasn't there for people to freak out over. He'd have to mention that after they got out of the hotel. When they weren't in danger of becoming the next body themselves.  
  
Jesus H. Christ. Two people dead, even before the night had fallen. What the hell?  
  
“Wait,” Sam called out, and Dean stopped the group from moving further. Sam quickly jogged from the rear of the group – not where Dean wanted him, but unfortunately where he needed him to keep everyone safe – up to the middle of the lobby. “If we move them upstairs, we can check the upstairs for EMF at the same time,” Sam said softly. “The rooms up there will probably only have one exit, since they're hotel rooms. Then we just wait this out.”  
  
“So what, now we're freaking supernatural tour guides?” Dean grumbled, but Sam had a good point. All of the rooms down here had glass walls, and while a spirit might not be able to get through it, it would cause pandemonium amongst the group. And that was the last thing they needed.  
  
A loud cracking sound made Dean jerk to the left, his heart racing. The innocent tree branch knocked against the window again, then slid away with the storm winds. “If we're moving people...” Sam started.  
  
“We need to do it now before the power goes out,” Dean said, nodding. “Okay. Second floor.” He paused, glancing at the stairs with trepidation. It was the last place the ghost had been violent, and god, they didn't even know who she was. It wasn't like this place was going to help solve any mysteries, either, but so far, no one with an axe had shown up.  
  
And god, he was really trying to jinx the shit out of them, wasn't he?  
  
“Is there another stairway?” Sam asked the group.  
  
Daniel raised his hand again, and Dean just rolled his eyes. With a cough Daniel lowered his hand sheepishly. “Uh, down the halls, both sides.”  
  
No way was Dean going to get the group down to the hallway on the right. No, they'd have to go to the left hallway, where she hadn't been. Yet. Maybe they could stop at the kitchen on the way.  
  
Dean straightened his shoulders and nodded. “Let's go,” he called, steering clear of the grand staircase and down the hall to the left. Sam fell back to the tail of the group, leaving Dean up front, clenching his fists and attempting to _not_ look behind him to make sure Sam was there. Considering he'd thought the kid was dead for a year, and considering he'd been half right, he figured he still had a few months to go before letting Sam out of his sight didn't leave his stomach in knots. He'd done fairly good with leaving Sam at the library, he thought. Even if the kid had wound up giving himself a headache.  
  
Speaking of... Dean couldn't help but glance back once, over the heads of the group, to where Sam was leading up the rear. Sam's brow was furrowed as he glanced around, checking everything they passed for any signs of the spirit. He seemed like he was breathing better, but he still looked pale.  
  
All Dean wanted to do was shove him into a chair and let him sit, let him rest. Unfortunately, not with a killer spirit on their hands.  
  
But had she killed them? Or had they just been freak accidents? Landon, maybe. Devina? No, that hadn't been a random death. Dean was fairly certain the spirit had killed her somehow. But when he'd checked the body, there'd been no marks around her neck, no bloody wounds, nothing. She'd just...gone to sleep and hadn't woken up.  
  
He forced himself to take stock of the place around them. The ballroom was by far the biggest room on the ground floor, with two separate entrances besides the main one that led out into the lobby. It looked like it could be closed off, from what Dean could see, but everything was dark inside. He moved past it quickly, taking stock of the next room on his right as they made their way down the hallway. A dining room, also large, held everything from chandeliers to a large fireplace, with cozy seats to sit in front of it with. To the left was a laundry room, looking clean and state of the art.  
  
Considering how well the laundry room in the last hotel had gone, Dean was more than happy to stay away from it.  
  
Up ahead at the end of the hall was a set of flapping doors and a dark room beyond it. Probably the kitchen. What caught Dean's eye, however, was the bright, glowing red sign that said 'EXIT' up on top, pointing to a door on the right before the end of the hall. There were lights on inside, and the sign on the door said 'STAIRS' with a small zig-zag line and a stick person climbing.  
  
And no axe murderers anywhere nearby. Dean was okay with that one the most.  
  
“Those are the stairs to the second floor,” Daniel said, quickly stepping up behind Dean. “All the rooms upstairs are unlocked for the guests of the party.” He bit his lip, glancing around at the group. “For all the guests,” he said miserably. “God, I can't believe that two of them are _dead_...”  
  
As long as he had Daniel nice and close, Dean might as well finish his questions from earlier. “You never answered my question,” Dean said, making Daniel frown. “What the hell's with the party?”  
  
“It was my idea,” Daniel explained, eyes glancing nervously about. “Well, mine and my dad's. Thomas Latter.”  
  
Dean frowned. “Wait a minute. Thomas Latter is your dad? As in the Thomas Latter who owns and put up the resort? Your last name doesn't match.”  
  
“From his first marriage,” Daniel said, nodding. “I wanted to reconnect with my dad, y'know? Get into the family business? I asked if I could help with social relations on the project, and he was ecstatic to have me, and I was just happy to be around him, y'know?”  
  
Yeah, Dean did know. “So you're the 'host' of the party? And didn't you say that everyone was a winner?”  
  
“It was a contest,” Daniel said. He nearly tripped over his shoes before righting himself and pursing his lips. “Publicity. I suggested we have people come try the place out before it opened, get good reviews in before it happened, and someone suggested to my dad that they make it a contest. People sign up, winners are drawn, winners get a free night at the new Huckston Retreat.”  
  
Wait a minute. “So this contest wasn't your idea?” Dean asked. Daniel shook his head, and the bad feeling in Dean's gut returned. “Whose idea was it?”  
  
Daniel shrugged. “I don't know. Someone my dad outsourced, I guess. Someone offered to set up the contest for my dad, draw the winners, and my dad agreed. I don't know who. He never told me.”  
  
Great. A third party that signs random people up for a night locked in with a dangerous spirit sounded nine types of wrong to Dean, but it wasn't like he could even look it up on Sam's phone. There'd be no research, _nothing_ , until they got out of the house.  
  
He held up his hand for the group to wait, leaving Daniel to almost bump into him. “Sorry,” Daniel said meekly when Dean glared at him. He stepped back a few paces until he was back at the front of the group with Monica, taking her hand firmly.  
  
Dean quickly stepped up to the stairwell door and peered through the small glass window. Nothing appeared on the other side besides well lit metal stairs that were painted a gentle gray. The walls were an off white, leaving it all pretty, expensive, and new. Most importantly, the lights were all new, lighting up the stairwell better than a runway. He breathed out a sigh of relief then stopped, frowning. Had that been mist in front of him? He reached for the doorknob and found it cool to the touch. Maybe a little too cool.  
  
Shit. “Everyone upstairs, now,” Dean ordered, swinging the door open wide. Everyone quickly pushed past him in a rush, shoving him up against the door with a bang. Dean winced as he hit the door hard, forced to wait until everyone had moved past him to push himself away. Sam paused at the bottom of the stairwell, looking back in concern, and Dean shook his head. “Go, get to the front,” he said, shutting the door tight behind them and hurrying up after Sam. God, how the hell did school teachers handle a group of kids without losing them?  
  
“Wait, guys, _wait_ ,” Sam called, fighting his way up to the front of the group. Fortunately, he'd gotten to the top of the stairs before the group had. He glanced through the window of the top door, frowning at whatever he saw.  
  
“Sam?” Dean called up.  
  
Sam shook his head. “I can't see, it's all dark,” he said. “Where are the light switches to the hallway?”  
  
“Ask Daniel,” Dean said, still trying to make his way up the stairs. The group had clustered together near the top, making it impossible to get through. “Daniel, where are the lights?”  
  
Daniel didn't answer. Dean stopped on the fifth step from the top, frowning. “Daniel!”  
  
“Where's Daniel?” Sam demanded, looking through the group. Dean tried to look through the group, but the huddled masses made it impossible to not only get up the stairs, but to find out who was there.  
  
“Oh god, he was right here,” Monica said, a frantic pitch in her voice. “H-He was right here, holding my hand, and he's gone-”  
  
A scream resounded from downstairs, muffled from the closed doors. “Daniel!” Monica shrieked, desperately trying to fight her way through the group. “ _Daniel!_ ”  
  
“Stay right there!” Dean bellowed, already flying down the stairs. Sam hurried down after him, nearly slamming into Dean's back when they got to the bottom door. Dean pulled his gun out and immediately swept the hallway. It was all brightly lit, all shining and clean and new.  
  
Except for the very bright bloodstains on the floor.  
  
“Oh god,” Sam whispered beside him, his own gun drawn. The stains tapered out to long streaks on the tiled floor, leading straight back to the end of the hall before taking a left. There was a door to the left of the kitchen that Dean hadn't seen before in his glancing, and he carefully stepped over the blood to see what it said.  
  
BASEMENT ACCESS – EMPLOYEES ONLY  
  
The blood led straight under the door. “Daniel!” Dean shouted, immediately trying the doorknob to the basement. Locked. “Daniel!” he shouted again.  
  
There was no reply.  
  
“Dean,” Sam called softly, pulling Dean from the door. Sam was staring at the blood streaks on the floor, looking nauseous. “There's a fingernail,” he managed, swallowing hard.  
  
She'd dragged him away screaming. How the hell had Daniel fallen to the back of the group anyway? Unless-  
  
Unless she'd grabbed him, fast, while the others had made their mad dash upstairs. Dean hadn't seen who'd flown past him, they'd shoved him aside so fast. “Did you see if he went into the stairwell?” he asked.  
  
Sam shook his head. “The group was moving so fast, and I was trying to keep up with them.” He looked nine types of miserable and swallowed again. Yeah, Dean knew how that felt.  
  
Three deaths, because Dean wasn't holding out much hope that Daniel was alive. “Think there's another way to access the basement?” he asked.  
  
Sam shook his head. “Maybe from outside, or down the hall, but that's not somewhere I want to take the group.”  
  
No, they had to get the group safe first, then deal with the basement. “You didn't see an elevator anywhere, did you?” Dean asked.  
  
Sam turned even more pale. “Really, Dean? Really?”  
  
“Hey, I'm the one who's been praying _not_ to go down to the basement,” Dean said, holding his hands up in surrender. Still, the blood stains on the floor arrested his attention, and he glanced down uneasily. Fuck but it was a lot of blood. No way was Daniel still alive.  
  
“The group,” Sam said, and Dean tore himself away from the gruesome remains of Daniel's life to the stairwell, following after Sam back up the stairs. The group was already moving through the doors to the second floor, apparently done with waiting. Dean cursed and pushed himself to follow, his back protesting the use. Being thrown into a door and shoved into it hadn't helped.  
  
“Guys, wait,” Sam said, getting to the top before him. A few stairs down, Dean could see that they were heading to the room across the way from the stairs. A gleaming gold _7_ on the door led to what seemed like a homey, deluxe suite. The lights were on and people were finding somewhere to sit or a corner to pace in. There were only two windows, leading out to the front of the resort, and they were both black from the darkness and storm outside. The rain was much louder now against the windowpanes, and it left Dean hastily shutting the door to the suite behind him. Everyone looked to him in askance, and Dean pursed his lips. It was answer enough.  
  
Clara was pacing this time, unable to sit still. “We shouldn't have left him behind,” she said, running long fingers up her bare arms. Her top and slacks looked perfect for a nightly group meeting or a business dinner, but now, she just looked cold. And scared. Definitely wasn't forgetting the scared.  
  
Monica let out a shriek that had both Dean and Sam whipping around towards her, but she only sank back into one of the chairs in the room, head cradled in her hands. “Oh god he's _dead_ ,” she moaned. “Oh god Daniel, oh _god_ , h-he got left behind, and I hated that poem, I hated that godawful poem, I hated that _book_ -”  
  
Dean frowned, and thank god everyone looked as confused as he did. “What book? What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
“Christie,” Monica choked out, and Sam inhaled sharply. “A-Agatha-”  
  
Amanda sucked in a startled breath, and when Dean turned, both her and his brother looked white as a sheet. “No way,” Sam said faintly. “There's no fucking way.”  
  
When Sam started cursing, it was time to get scared. “ _WHAT_?” Dean roared, freaked out now that Sam was freaked out. “Someone explain!”  
  
“ _And Then There Were None_ ,” Amanda breathed, eyes wide. “Agatha Christie's horror mystery.”  
  
“What on earth does that have to do with anything?” Paul asked, bewildered. “It's a novel that took its title from a poem-”  
  
“ _Ten little Soldier boys went out to dine, one choked his little self and then there were nine_ ,” Sam recited softly, and Monica whimpered in the corner. Sam swallowed but continued. “ _Nine little Soldier boys sat up very late, one overslept himself and then there were eight. Eight little Soldier boys traveling in Devon_...” Sam looked over at Dean, fear in his eyes as he finished quietly, “ _One got left behind, and then there were seven_.”  
  
Dean slowly looked around the room, counting the heads. Clara, Amanda, Monica. Teddy, Paul, and Harrison. That made six. Daniel, Devina, and Landon had only made nine, so where did they come up with ten?  
  
 _“You must be Leroy Hutchinson, with a...guest?”_  
  
“Shit,” Dean breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was ten. Sam had been an extra to the game. There were still seven “little soldiers” to kill off.  
  
And they'd all died in a perfect matching manner. Landon had “choked himself” while Devina had “overslept”.  
  
And Daniel had gotten left behind.  
  
“It's just a coincidence,” Paul said, but his voice sounded uneven.  
  
“There's no such thing as a coincidence,” Sam and Dean said in unison. “Not in our line of work,” Sam added.  
  
“Okay, time out,” Dean said, putting his hands up in a T. “You're trying to tell me that our spirit's got a hard-on for Agatha Christie?” Not that they hadn't heard of and dealt with weirder, but still, even with the evidence right in front of him, it just felt wrong. Not that any of this felt right, though. “She's out of her time by decades,” Dean continued.  
  
“Actually, the novel was published in 1939 under a different title, and republished as _And Then There Were None_ in 1940,” Sam said, and Dean felt a surge of fondness for the geeky kid in front of him, his geeky kid that was there in front of him to tell him random factoids like this. God but he was so damn happy Sam was there and alive and with him.  
  
Dean weighed that against what little they did know. “Old style dress, Sam,” he said, wincing. Old style from the early 20th century, according to their witnesses.  
  
“Could've been a wedding dress,” Sam countered. “Styles in 1940 meant they were generally borrowed or passed down on account of fabric being scarce in the war time.”  
  
“Does he know everything?” Teddy asked incredulously. “Jesus man, set up a Wikipedia or something. Is that true?”  
  
“It is,” Harrison spoke up, drawing all eyes to him. “My mother's dress was a hand-me-down from her mother, who got married in 1911,” he said quietly.  
  
Amanda began to pace again, pulling at the hem of her plain t-shirt. “What year did your spirit die in?” she asked.  
  
Dean shut his eyes, already knowing that Sam would have the date ingrained in his head and more than able to spit it back out. He wasn't disappointed.  
  
Still, Sam's stricken, “October 12th, 1940,” wasn't a welcome statement. It was all damning evidence, pointing to a twisted ass poem and a book Dean had never enjoyed in high school, if just because he'd dealt with enough death on the hunt. He hadn't needed it in the classroom.  
  
Paul's next statement was equally as chilling. “If it's following the pattern of the novel, then...who dies next?”  
  
Silence filled the room, the only sound the now pouring rain and the howling wind from outside. These weren't random deaths anymore: these had a pattern. The three that had died were supposed to die that way.  
  
And there were seven more deaths promised to come.


	5. The 6 Canisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery deepens as everyone struggles to understand what part of the poem will lead to their death. In order to keep everyone safe, Sam goes with a small group of volunteers to find salt. But the hotel halls aren't safe, and someone won't make it back...

Sam had always hated that poem. It was the one and only time that he could think of where he'd dreaded going to school. They'd been focused on it for two weeks in English, and Sam had never been happier to leave that particular high school behind. It had given him nightmares, terrible nightmares, of the terror of people one by one by one being picked off, killed in horrible ways, only for the killer to have been among them the whole time, willing and able to take numerous lives. The poem had haunted him, buzzing around his head and leaving him perfectly able to recite the damn thing. He knew the order and the way the people in the poem would die. It was forever engraved on his memory. He'd faced it once in college, but it had been a quick mention in a class, and then Sam had left it behind forever.  
  
But yet here it was again. Except now, now it was as real as the nightmares had felt all those years ago. He couldn't help the shivers that ran up his spine as he looked around the room. All of these people were slated to die in some manner. Picked off, one by one by one.  
  
“Okay, someone explain this to me,” Teddy said, raising his hand much like Daniel had, and god, they'd lost the best person to guide them around the house. “I never read the book and I slept through, like, the last half of the film, so I have no idea what happens. I'm assuming it's nothing good.”  
  
“No, it's not,” Sam said. He took a deep breath before continuing. “In the book, ten strangers get invited to an island by 'friends' and then are abandoned there. One by one everyone starts dying in the manner of the poem, which is posted in the house they're all staying in. Each person was brought to the island because they're guilty of a crime, usually the death of someone else, and they got away with it for various reasons. The man who dies first, the one who 'choked himself' on a poisoned drink, ran over children with his car and killed them.”  
  
“Eventually there's no one left,” Amanda added, still playing with the hem of her shirt. “They all die.”  
  
Teddy looked like he was sorry he'd asked. Sam certainly wasn't thrilled that he'd been forced to dredge up one of his, how had Monica put it, worst literary nightmares, next to Stephen King's _It_.  
  
Speaking of Monica...  
  
“How did you know, Monica?” Sam asked, and she glanced up at him, her eyes glistening with tears. “How did you know to make the connection?”  
  
“I was actually about to ask Amanda the same thing,” Dean said. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall near the door, and for anyone who didn't know his brother, Dean was the perfect image of nonchalance. But Sam knew that against his side, where no one could see, Dean was tapping his fingers nervously, and that he was poised and ready to move fast if he needed to.  
  
Amanda pursed her lips. “I'm a fan of mystery novels,” she said. “Agatha Christie's a favorite. Well, she _was_ , until tonight.”  
  
Sam turned to Monica in askance. Monica wiped at her eyes, new tears forming. “I-I'm an English major,” she managed to choke out. “It's where...it's where Daniel and I met-” She cut herself off with a sob, burying her face in her hands again.  
  
Sam's gut tightened in the face of her grief. He'd met Jess in a class, too. “It's gonna be okay,” he offered in a soft voice. “We'll get you out of here, Monica, I promise.”  
  
“The best way to do that would be to start fessing up, right now,” Amanda said firmly. “It's the only way we can figure out who's next.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Dean said incredulously. “'Fessing up' to what exactly?”  
  
“To what you're guilty for,” Amanda responded. “That's why we're here, right? That's why we're dying? If your spirit or whatever is following the path of the poem, it stands to reason that we're guilty of something, of a death somewhere. That's why we're getting picked off.”  
  
As much as Sam hated to admit it, it _did_ make a logical sense. “Anyone?” he asked of the room at large. God knew he had enough blood on his hands to make him the spirit's number one choice.  
  
No one said anything. Dean shifted casually against the wall, but he had to be nervous, too. Whether accidentally or not, he had innocent blood on his hands, too.  
  
“What about those who have already died?” Harrison asked. “What have they done?”  
  
It was a damn good question, and Sam was grateful that someone there had a level head. “If my phone worked, I could tell you,” Sam said, before pausing. “How much mingling did people do before Landon choked?”  
  
“Only half an hour or so,” Paul admitted. “We hadn't been there long. I knew Landon from when we'd both taken a required first aid course together a few years ago. He liked it enough to go on as an EMT.”  
  
“He was an EMT?” Clara asked, frowning. “He looked super familiar, I could've sworn I'd seen his face before.”  
  
“Oh my god,” Teddy exclaimed, eyes widening. “That, that thing in the papers about a year back. About an EMT stepping up to help a choking customer at a restaurant and not being able to save them, do you remember that? His picture was in the paper-”  
  
“That _was_ him,” Paul said, blinking as if coming out of a stupor. “I remember recognizing his photo.”  
  
Now they were getting somewhere, and Sam felt a surge of adrenaline spike through him. “Anyone know Devina?” Dean asked, pushing away from the wall, eyes quickly scanning the group. “Monica?”  
  
Monica shrugged. “I'd met her at the party for the first time, never knew her. Landon seemed to have recognized her, though.”  
  
“Her family was a client of mine,” Harrison said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I knew she looked familiar. It was a long battle with the courts, as to how Devina's father's estate would be divided, on account of the living will. Her father was in a coma, and he'd stated that his children would be allowed to decide how to deal with it if there was little to no chance he would wake up. The doctors had promised hope, but in the end...”  
  
“She pulled the plug,” Sam said, swallowing hard. “Was it in the papers?”  
  
“Not really,” Harrison said, looking up with a haunted look in his eyes. “But it was regular gossip for a long, long time.”  
  
“And Daniel?” Amanda asked, turning to Monica. “You dated him, you should know.”  
  
Monica wiped at her cheeks with shaking hands. “His...his friend,” she whispered. “They were out somewhere on a trip, and they ran out of gas. It was late at night. Daniel said he offered to go get some from the nearby exit, and left Michael behind. I-I guess Michael waited outside, and the driver didn't see him, and...” She looked up at Sam, biting her lip to try and keep her composure. “He left Michael behind,” she whimpered. “And I left him behind, and sh-she got him...”  
  
It felt like being hit by a two by four, and Sam straightened at the realization. “Sammy?” Dean said, picking up on the change in attitude.  
  
“It's not the same,” he said, shaking his head. “Because they're dying the same way.”  
  
Dean gave him a look that said clearly, _Explain, little brother,_ and raised his eyebrows. Sam shook himself and gazed around the room. “In the novel, the guests die in the manner of the poem,” he explained, hands gesturing wildly. “But they didn't kill someone in that manner. The guy who choked didn't choke someone else, he ran them over with his car. The one who overslept was rumored to have murdered her previous employer.”  
  
“But in this case,” Dean said, picking up where Sam was going, “the punishment fits the crime.”  
  
“But they're not guilty,” Amanda said, frowning. “They didn't commit the crimes, they were accidents!”  
  
“Spirits don't see things that way,” Sam said. “It's black and white to them. If they were involved in a death somehow, then they're guilty.”  
  
“I imagine those deceased would certainly feel that way,” Harrison said, his gaze locked outside at the growing storm. “Devina was wracked with guilt over pulling the plug on her father.”  
  
Monica sniffled, wrapping her arms around herself. She seemed more coherent, though. “Daniel's been bringing up Michael a lot lately,” she said. “I think he said it would've been Michael's 25th birthday this month. The guilt's been eating him up. That's why he told me what happened.”  
  
If the punishment fit the crime, then this wasn't just a spirit with a random crush on Agatha Christie's novel. No, this screamed vengeful spirit, and those were ten times more dangerous. He met Dean's eyes, knowing his brother was thinking the exact same thing. “Wonder what Joel Green was involved in,” Dean said softly.  
  
Probably saw someone get pushed down the stairs and break their neck, was Sam's guess. Thank god he'd survived her attack.  
  
Still, it didn't quite add up. Something was missing, but Sam couldn't quite put his finger on it.  
  
“If that's the case, then people should definitely know which one they are,” Amanda said, picking right back up from where she'd left off. “We're all here because of the contest with the free night's stay-”  
  
“And that's what I don't understand,” Paul interrupted. He shrugged his shoulders, looking nine types of confused. “I never signed up for the contest. I always assumed one of my friends had put my name down. I was blown away by the letter I got in the mail.”  
  
Sam swore his heart stopped. “You didn't sign up?” he asked.  
  
Paul shook his head. “I...I didn't either,” Clara said, biting her lip. “I just got the letter in the mail, figured it was a random 'congratulations, resident' sort of thing.”  
  
“I was Daniel's guest,” Monica said tentatively. “I wasn't exactly invited, either.”  
  
Well...shit. Then Amanda was right: they'd all been picked for a reason.  
  
“The next one gets chopped up,” Amanda snapped, anger and fear in her eyes. “ _Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks, one chopped himself in halves and then there were six._ ” No one said anything, and Amanda continued on in a burst. “ _Six little soldier boys playing with a hive, one got stung by a bee and then there were five. Five little soldier boys_ -”  
  
“God, stop,” Monica begged, her hands leaping up to cover her ears. “I hate that poem, just _stop_ -”  
  
“ _Five little soldier boys going in for law, one got in Chancery and then there were four_ ,” Amanda kept going at a rapid fire pace. There was a gleam in her eyes that was starting to look crazed, and her voice began to sound high-pitched and bordering on hysterical. “ _F-Four little soldier boys going out to sea, a red herring swallowed one and then there were three. Three little soldier boys walking in the zoo, a big bear_...” She gasped for air, her eyes starting to shine. “ _A b-big bear hugged one a-and then there were...were two_ -”  
  
Sam stepped over and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. She deflated at the touch, falling back into the chair behind her and shivering like she'd never get warm. Monica was nearly rocking in the corner, and Clara was trying to bury herself between Paul and Teddy, and all three of them were desperately trying to stare holes through the floor.  
  
“Sonuvabitch,” Dean muttered under his breath, closing his eyes. Sam stood helplessly near Amanda, glancing up and around the room. His eyes landed on the mirror by the dresser, and despite the lights they'd turned on, everything looked grim and dark and hopeless. Sam shuddered and resisted the urge to run his hands up his arms. Even though she hadn't recited them, he still knew the last two phrases.  
  
 _Two little soldier boys sitting in the sun, one got frizzled up and then there was one.  
  
One little soldier boy left all alone, he went and hanged himself...and then there were none._  
  
God but Sam hated that poem.  
  
“So that means...we're all guilty?” Clara asked, voice trembling. “We've all had a hand in someone's death, somehow?”  
  
“Not directly,” Dean started, but Teddy cut in before he could finish.  
  
“Yeah, but as far as the ghost is concerned, we're guilty. That means we've _all_ been responsible for someone's death. We've all 'killed', according to her.”  
  
The atmosphere changed almost instantly. Everyone began moving their gaze to one another, as if trying to seek out a truth that the other was keeping hidden. A few glances were thrown Sam's way, and unbidden, names came to mind. _Jess, Madison, Dad, Mom, Jo, Ellen, even Dean..._  
  
A hand caught his elbow and pulled him away towards the corner. “We weren't invited to this shindig,” Dean said, pitching his voice low. “This isn't on us, Sam.”  
  
“It is, though, according to the spirit,” Sam countered softly. “She could take either of us for a spin on practically every single one of the stanzas.” God but he hated not knowing who she'd go for next. There was a whole room of people that the mystery ghost could tackle, and he didn't even know what she looked like. No one except Clara had seen her.  
  
Actually, Sam had to admit that that was part of what had his stomach tied in knots. “Don't you think it's weird, that we haven't seen more of the spirit yet?” Sam asked. “She's been violent and not afraid to do so, but only Clara's seen her.”  
  
Dean stared at him. “You _want_ to see a ghost,” he said flatly.   
  
“Honestly, it would make more sense,” Sam defended, giving his brother a look. “And you know it. And her escalation of violence is weird: she's gone from pushing kids down the stairs to some sort of vengeful death routine according to a mystery novel?”  
  
“Was there anything in _And Then There Were None_ about someone getting pushed down the stairs?” Dean asked, but Sam shook his head. It didn't make any sense.  
  
Dean held his hands up in a 'don't look at me' manner. “Dude, no one said spirits had to make sense.”  
  
“Yeah, but there's usually a motive, a reason,” Sam said.  
  
“Maybe she was murdered while reading the book. It's the one thing that's stuck with her through the afterlife.”  
  
It was one of the lamest ideas Sam had ever heard, but it sort of fit. “Yeah, maybe,” he admitted.  
  
Dean snapped his fingers suddenly. “Maybe she'd have started this whole mystery novel thing with the kids if she'd gotten a hold of them. Maybe she was trying to choke Joel and he got away, but tumbled down the stairs?”  
  
Now _that_ , Sam was willing to bet, was plausible. “Still, she appeared to the kids, and we've only had one sighting so far. It just...there's something wrong with this.”  
  
“There's something wrong with haunted hotels in general,” Dean muttered.  
  
“You said we could keep her away.”  
  
Sam turned away from Dean back towards the group, who were all staring intently at the both of them in the corner. “You said you needed something to keep her away,” Amanda repeated. “If this is a real ghost, then what do we need?”  
  
The salt. They'd gotten so wrapped up in the damn deaths that they'd forgotten about the salt. “We need salt,” Sam told her. “And a lot of it. Spirits can't cross salt, it's a purifying agent.”  
  
“The kitchen was stocked, sort of,” Monica offered. “Basics that people might need. I helped haul some of it in with Daniel. They've probably got salt.”  
  
“That helps,” Dean said, turning towards the door. “We just need to-”  
  
He froze, and Sam saw the minute it hit Dean just what they'd have to do. The kitchen was downstairs. The room they were in was upstairs and unprotected. Which meant one of them would have to go down to get it, guarded with what limited iron rounds they had in their guns, and the other would have to stay up here to protect the group.  
  
In other words, they'd have to split up.  
  
“I'll go,” Sam said softly, and Dean immediately turned around, shaking his head furiously.  
  
“No, you're not.”  
  
“I'll be quick-”  
  
“She'll be quicker and you know it. Dammit Sammy, she's already killed three people-”  
  
“ _Dean_ ,” Sam said firmly, and Dean clenched his fists but said nothing. Sam softened. “I'll be quick,” he said again.  
  
“I'll go with him,” Amanda said, surprising Sam. Amanda didn't look exactly comfortable with the idea, but she tipped her chin up anyway. Whatever breakdown she'd had earlier seemed to have been put firmly in the past. “We'll do a buddy system. Safety in numbers, right?”  
  
Teddy pushed himself up from his seat. “I'll go too,” he said. “If there's a lot of salt, you need people to carry it, right?”  
  
Despite the situation, Sam couldn't help but smile. Freaked out civilians who were willing to do what they had to in order to keep everyone alive. “Okay,” Sam said, nodding. “We'll go together.”  
  
“Don't sing the _Grease_ song,” Amanda said, waving her hand off. “I can't stand that musical.”  
  
Sam's lips turned up into a grin. Dean, for once, didn't appreciate the random tidbit of humor. “You both listen to Sam,” he demanded. “He tells you to cluck like a chicken-”  
  
“I'll tell him to fuck off,” Teddy said, glaring at Dean. “We get it, okay? None of us wants to die. Shut up already, man.”  
  
Dean glanced at Sam, and the pure fear Sam saw in his brother's eyes was enough to leave him humbled. “It'll be all right,” Sam told him. “If we need you, we'll yell. Okay?”  
  
Everything in Dean's look screamed that no, it was _not_ okay, but he said nothing. Sam took a deep breath and deliberately stepped past Dean to the door. Footsteps behind him came closer until Amanda and Teddy were right behind him. “Stay with me,” Sam said, and they both nodded rapidly. Cautiously he reached out for the handle, finding it cool but not too cold. If she was here, it wasn't right outside the door at least.  
  
With one last glance back at Dean, who looked ready to jump out of his skin, Sam carefully opened the door, hand at the small of his back to find his gun. Amanda and Teddy crowded in, and as quickly as they could they stepped out into the darkened hallway, shutting the door behind them.  
  
The lights in the stairwell were still on, and down the hallway, Sam could see the glow from the lobby. It lit up once, twice, bright and flaring all of a sudden, and then he heard the thunder roll to follow the lightning. Amanda shivered behind him. “It was a dark and stormy night,” she muttered. “Of _course_ it had to be a dark and stormy night.”  
  
“We hurry downstairs, get into the kitchen, get the salt, get _out_ ,” Sam said. He reached out to test the doorknob to the stairwell and found it cool but not chilled as well. He opened the door and moved through, Teddy and Amanda right on his tail. “Nothing more. We only need the salt to keep us safe.”  
  
He hesitated as they moved cautiously down the stairs, cringing as he remembered what was waiting beyond the door. “Um, don't look at the floor,” he told them, earning two frowns. “Try not to, at least.”  
  
The doorknob on the bottom felt about right as well, and he opened the door slowly as could be. The hallway only held residual glow from the lobby and the exit sign above them: the kitchen itself was completely dark. He stepped out, waving for Amanda and Teddy to follow. The silence that surrounded their movements was eerie, and Sam warily looked at the door to the basement. Still shut and locked.  
  
“Oh god,” Teddy choked out, and Sam winced. Well, he'd tried.  
  
“Just...just focus on the kitchen,” Amanda said, but her voice was shaking. “And not on the floor. The doors, not the floor. Doors, not the floor.”  
  
Sam glanced all around and behind their small trio, scanning the hallway for any movement. But it was still and silent, clean and new. The only thing that suggested that there was something wrong was the feeling in the air, the anxiousness that buzzed through Sam's very being.  
  
That and the blood stains on the floor. Those didn't help.  
  
Carefully they stepped through into the kitchen, pushing the swinging door inward. “Hold the door,” Sam said, reaching blindly to the sides to try and find a switch. Cool tiled walls met his fingertips as he slowly inched his way around to the lights. God, if they were on the other side of the room...  
  
Finally his fingers met cold metal, and Sam eagerly found a switch and flipped it. The room was bathed in light, revealing a stainless steel, modern kitchen that would more than satisfy any guests that could come calling. Pots and pans of every shape hung from the walls and over the island in the middle of the large room, clean enough to sparkle. Along the walls were freezers and ovens, stoves and sinks. Everything looked perfect.  
  
To the left were open pantry doors, and Sam slowly edged inside the kitchen to see if salt of any sort was inside. “Find anything?” Amanda asked.  
  
The lights flickered, and all three of them froze. “Get in here, _now_ ,” Sam ordered, racing over to the pantry. Sugar of all types, cocoa powder, noodles and pasta, cans of chicken broth-  
  
There. The bottom shelf held six canisters of salt, all large volume. “Thank god,” Sam breathed, quickly grabbing the salt. Teddy appeared right at his side, arms open and ready. “Amanda?” Sam called, only to find her at the door, waiting. He quickly thrust three of the salt canisters into Teddy's grasp.  
  
“Hurry!” Amanda yelled, nervously glancing out towards the hallway. Sam's heart beat even faster in his chest as he grabbed the last three canisters and dashed towards the door, Teddy hot on his heels. Sam thrust two of the canisters at Amanda as they raced past the basement access door, their shoes sticking to the blood on the floor and leaving Sam unsure of every step he took.  
  
They only had to get upstairs. If they could get upstairs, they could stay away from her, they could last out the night-  
  
“Go go go!” Teddy shouted when the lights flickered again but then stayed on. Sam grabbed the door to the stairwell and flung it open, dashing through, eyes searching out every corner of the stairwell. Was it colder? Had that been a shadow? Quickly he took the stairs, stopping on the middle landing to watch Teddy and Amanda race up the steps.  
  
The door at the bottom suddenly slammed shut. Sam froze, staring at the door. Teddy turned on the stair two steps from the top, also staring at the door they'd just come through. Amanda kept racing ahead, nearly tripping on the stairs as she stepped up onto the middle landing. “Teddy, come on!” Sam yelled.  
  
The lights went out. A scream echoed around them, loud and everywhere at once, and Sam shut his eyes, heart pounding up into his throat. There was no light and his weapon was in the back of his pants and the scream wouldn't stop, and something suddenly hit him hard and sent him flying into the wall. Pain radiated through his being, and god, he was dizzy and unable to get his gun out in the dark. Something covered his face, something warm and wrong, and Sam cried out.  
  
The scream suddenly cut off as quickly as it had started. Pounding footsteps were suddenly close, too close, and before Sam could do anything the lights came back on. “Sammy!” was shouted above him, Dean bursting through the door above, Paul hot on his heels.  
  
Sam couldn't say anything. Amanda had fallen on top of him and sent both of them sprawling onto the landing. The room spun around and around, and god, that wasn't even the worst part. No, the worst part was Amanda, staring with open-mouthed horror at the stairs leading down to the first floor, and Sam unable to tear his gaze away either.  
  
Teddy was strewn across the steps, blood everywhere. His eyes were frozen open in terror, mouth forever locked in a silent scream. The three canisters of salt he'd been carrying were slashed and emptied all over his body, slowly turning pink from the blood. There were slashes and deep cuts across every part of his body, and even as Sam watched in horror, his right hand slowly fell away from his arm.  
  
Something warm began to slide down Sam's face, and numbly he reached up to wipe it away. Blood. Teddy's blood. He and Amanda were absolutely covered in it, sprayed while Teddy had died two steps away from them in the dark.  
  
Sam turned to look up the stairs at his brother. Paul had his hand covering his mouth, and Dean stared at the body in stunned disbelief.   
  
Dead. Chopped up on the stairwell.  
  
And then there were six.


	6. The 5th Victim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the group continues to dwindle, and each person is trying to figure out which stanza is their death knell, Sam posits a scenario to Dean: that it's maybe not a spirit at all. And that maybe, just maybe, they have a human murderer amongst them.

“Oh Jesus,” Paul choked, looking two steps away from throwing up. Dean finally wrenched his gaze away from the gruesome remains of Teddy to where Amanda and Sam were sprawled all over the landing. Both were covered in Teddy's sprayed blood, and both looked like they were in shock. Dean quickly made his way down the stairs, pulling Amanda to her feet. Somehow, she still had two salt canisters in her arms, and managed to keep a hold on them even as she stood.  
  
“Can you walk?” he asked her.  
  
Amanda didn't answer, but she was making her way up the stairs on her own steam, and Paul took her by the elbow to help. Dean turned back to his little brother, who was still staring at Teddy with wide eyes. “Sammy?” he asked softly, crouching down next to his brother. “Sammy, talk to me.”  
  
Slowly Sam turned his head, and his dilated pupils made Dean want to curse with every word he knew. “Dean?” Sam asked in a distant voice. Blood was all over his face, and that was definitely shock, as well as a concussion of some sort. Dean reached back and gently moved his hand all over Sam's head, finally getting a hiss of pain when he brushed against a raised bump. Great.  
  
“C'mon,” Dean said, catching Sam's arms and hauling him up as best he could. Sam's canister had fallen beside him, but it was still closed, and Dean grabbed it with his other hand once Sam was mostly up. Sam's legs were wobbly beneath him, but once he was upright he seemed a little better. He still didn't look like he was tracking things well, and his eyes kept drifting over to the macabre image Teddy left. Dean felt him give a full body shudder, and quickly started tugging Sam up the stairs. Anything to not look at the red spattered mess that Teddy had left all over the stairs, the walls, his brother...  
  
He should never have let Sam go downstairs on his own. _Ever_. Everything in his gut had screamed that it was a bad idea, and he hadn't listened to it. God, when did separating ever wind up a good thing with them?  
  
He'd wound up waiting outside the suite near the stairwell door, too antsy to sit and wait in the room. The lights had flickered twice, and the second time, Paul had come out, telling him they should go check on the others downstairs. “Have you heard anything?” he'd asked.  
  
He'd heard something then. The door slamming below him, Sam shouting, and then the lights had gone out. The scream that had gone up had been all male, and Dean's heart had stopped dead in his chest, an instant spike of fear almost making him hurl. He'd fumbled for the doorknob to the stairwell in the dark, desperately fighting to get it open, to not trip down the stairs because Sammy, oh god _Sammy_ -  
  
Dean spared poor Teddy one last look before pulling the stairwell door open to the second floor. As terrible as it had been, he'd be forever grateful that it hadn't been Sam. Sam, who was covered in blood and had his bell rung pretty hard, probably catching Amanda, and still couldn't stop shivering.  
  
So intently focused on Sam, Dean never even saw the group until he nearly bumped into them out in the hall. “What are you all doing?” Dean asked, frowning. “We've got the salt, move-”  
  
“Not near the stairs,” Clara said, shaking her head viciously. “Not by these stairs, at least. We need to move to another room.”  
  
Fine, so long as they didn't freak out, Dean was fine with that. “Everyone moves together,” he said, eyes glancing over the group that was dwindling by the moment. Holy shit. Four bodies scattered around between the basement and the first floor.  
  
“Which room?” Monica asked, glancing down the darkened hallway. There was still light coming from the lobby, so there was something to guide them, at least. Dean would take his positives where he could.  
  
All of the doors seemed open, for the most part, so Dean wasn't really fussy. “You pick,” he offered magnanimously. He didn't honestly care if she picked a pink room with a purple horse in it. His priorities were more focused on the dazed little brother tucked against his side like he was all of four years old again. He'd wrapped himself around Dean after the seizure, too.  
  
Dean's insides clenched at the memory, and he forced himself back to the hear and now. One bad situation was all he could handle at the moment, not two. Especially when the others were moving – hesitantly, at least – down the hallway. “Sammy, you cool to move?” he said softly.  
  
Sam surprised him by nodding. “Yeah, jus'...go slow,” Sam mumbled. Coherency: slurred, but there was coherency. Dean's heart leapt, but for a good reason this time. It wasn't great, but he'd take it.  
  
“I can do slow,” Dean promised. Paul and Harrison were leading the group, and they were all staying together, and Dean could still see them. They were maybe three, four yards ahead of them, max, so Dean let them stay at the distance. He focused on holding Sam upright and guiding him down the hallway, taking occasional glances up to make sure the group was still there, heading towards the light.  
  
Despite being so intently watching Sam's movements, he was still startled when Sam spoke up. “Something's...something's not right here,” he whispered.  
  
“There's a _lot_ that's not right here,” Dean replied. “Pick anything about tonight.”  
  
“No, not...not that. About the last murder.”  
  
The word choice drew Dean up short for a moment. “Murder?” he asked, bewildered. If they talked about a spirit killing someone, it was, well, the spirit _killing_ them, or the person _dying_ , or the spirit being involved in their _death_. There'd never been talk about a _murder_. Murder was something humans did to each other.  
  
“Murder,” Sam said firmly, but despite the strength that was slowly returning to his speech, he kept his voice pitched low. “The door downstairs slammed shut after we got in, the lights went out while we were on the stairs to make us freeze, trapping us where we stood.” He took a deep breath, glanced up at the group once, then continued. “And it wasn't cold. At all. There's been no EMF anywhere we've scanned-”  
  
“We haven't really scanned, Sam-”  
  
“Mine's been on this whole time. I just left it on in my pocket.”  
  
Come to think of it, Dean had turned his on when they'd entered the party. He pursed his lips as Sam continued. “We haven't seen the ghost at all. And Teddy...” Sam looked sick for half a second, and Dean wrapped his fingers tighter around Sam's waist, just in case. “Teddy was carrying salt,” Sam said after a moment, throwing a grateful smile Dean's way. “Three canisters of it, Dean.”  
  
“It wasn't out, though.”  
  
“It was after he got sliced up the first time.”  
  
All points leading to a conclusion Dean _really_ didn't want to start thinking about yet. “That doesn't mean there isn't a ghost,” he said weakly, trying one last time to offer up reasonable doubt.  
  
“No, but I don't think she's killing people even if there _is_ a ghost,” Sam countered. He glanced up at the group one more time before whispering, “Did you keep an eye on everyone the entire time we went downstairs?”  
  
Shit. “No,” Dean muttered, feeling like hitting something, because he hadn't. “I waited outside the room near the stairwell.”  
  
“Dean-”  
  
“You're first priority,” Dean said, glaring up at Sam. “Not them. I'll do my damnedest to keep them safe, but if I have to choose between them or you, it'll be you.”  
  
Sam blinked at the very not so subtle truth, and Dean turned away, heat rushing through face. Then Sam leaned into him, stumbling, and Dean caught Sam's arm as it came behind him, wrapping it around Dean's shoulder, and oh. Sam hadn't stumbled. Sam grabbed his shoulder and gripped hard, right up against the handprint Dean barely thought about, and _god_ but he'd missed the kid. He tightened his own grip, the closest he could get to giving a hug back.   
  
They were making it out of here alive. There was no other option. He wasn't losing Sam, not after he'd gotten him back again. Not after he'd let him fall.  
  
The group was up past the middle of the hallway, past the open stairwell and the lights of the lobby. Dean stepped out with Sam onto the top of the stairwell, shifting his gaze to quickly assess the lobby. Nothing moved, nothing caught his eye. Satisfied, he turned back to the hallway.  
  
Something moved, fast and barely there, out of the corner of his eye, and Dean whipped his head to the side. It was an empty suite, dark but open, the light from the lobby shining in to partially illuminate the room. It looked the same as the other suite: bed, lounge chairs, dresser, mirror, desk, tall lamps. Still, Dean quickly moved past the room, taking Sam with him.  
  
Sam cleared his throat. “Dean, people keep dropping like flies,” he said, pulling them right back to the conversation of bad. “If it's not a ghost, then...”  
  
Then there was an honest to god killer amongst them. One of the group that was ahead of them was murdering, _murdering_ , the others.  
  
It wasn't in their job description to deal with humans hurting other humans. If they had to, they would, but the thought of killing another human being, even one scummy enough to kill others, made Dean's stomach turn. This was a job for the authorities, not them.  
  
“Dean, what are we going to do?” Sam asked quietly, sounding just as lost as Dean felt.  
  
The group ahead had obviously found a room to their liking, two doors away from the stairwell, because they were all turning back towards Dean and Sam expectantly. “C'mon!” Monica called anxiously. “Hurry!”  
  
Dean took a deep breath. “We keep an eye on everyone,” he said softly, before they were within hearing distance. He stole a quick glance up towards his brother, which only cemented his original idea. “Then we sit you down somewhere to rest for a little bit.”  
  
“Dean, I'm-”  
  
“Not okay, in the slightest. Your eyes are uneven and you're weaving. The only reason you've been walking straight is because I'm an awesome brother and I've pulled you back when you list to the side. If your migraine was gone earlier, I'm sure it's back by now. You sit and recover while we try and figure this out. Clear?”  
  
Sam didn't look happy, but when Dean got a small nod, it spoke volumes about how shitty the kid had to be feeling in order to agree to Dean's mother-henning.  
  
By then, they'd caught up to the group. Paul and Harrison moved in first, the girls practically wrapped around them in their attempts to stay close. Dean and Sam brought up the tail end, and by the time they were in, the others had found lamps to turn on. The storm was raging outside now, tree branches battering against the windows as the rain pounded down.  
  
Dean managed to get Sam seated in a chair near the door before he shut it. “Amanda, the canisters,” he said. Amanda quickly hurried over, canisters in hand. Dean opened his and began pouring a liberal amount of salt across the doorway. “Nice long line,” he said, getting halfway across before closing his up. He still had quite a bit of salt left, at least half. “Don't skimp.”  
  
Amanda immediately got to work, even going back over his own line to make it thick. If the killer was amongst them, then the salt wasn't going to do anything except amuse them. If there was a ghost, though, then at least they'd be protected. Besides, the group was essentially sold on the idea that there _was_ a spirit wandering around. The longer they could keep them focused on that and not the idea that one of them was killing people, the better.  
  
As soon as she finished the line, Amanda set her canisters down and rose to face the group. “Who's next?” she said, crossing her arms. “Because the way Teddy died means that we're _definitely_ not looking at a coincidence anymore. This isn't a game, and Teddy just got _hacked into pieces_. Speak up. _Six little soldier boys playing with a hive, one got stung by a bee and then there were five._ Who is it?”  
  
Monica had taken a seat next to Sam, and leaned in towards him when Amanda asked, shuddering. The rest of the group looked just as happy as she did. “You have to know if it's you,” Amanda said firmly, eyes blazing. “Who. Is. It?”  
  
Dean stepped forward to tell her to back down, but then Paul spoke up. “Me,” he said miserably. “It's...it's me.”  
  
Stunned silence filled the room. “How do you know?” Sam asked when he found his voice.  
  
Paul let out a long sigh. “I...god. I used to be a school teacher. First grade. I loved my kids. They were such bright individuals with their own hopes and dreams and I _loved_ my job.” Tears filled his eyes, and he brought a hand up to hover over his mouth, as if to stop his next words from coming out. “We're always warned about allergies. One of the kids, he, he was allergic to peanuts. I always kept watch, but when I wasn't looking, he traded snacks with another kid. They didn't mean to, they didn't know any better, but when I looked back, Carl was on the floor, convulsing. I grabbed the first aid kit with the Epi-Pen but by then...”  
  
His hand came up to cover his eyes, his shoulders shaking. No one moved. Dean stared at the wrecked man before him, the man who was _not_ guilty for the kid's death but was obviously eaten up by it anyway, and god, someone was going to try and make him pay for it...  
  
Paul seemed to get a hold of himself after a few deep breaths. “The courts ruled it an accidental death. The parents blamed me, obviously, but later told me it hadn't been my fault. It didn't matter. I couldn't go back and teach after that. I've been working at my friend's construction crew, up in the office.” He looked up at them, eyes red. “It wasn't my fault,” he told them. “I swear to god I didn't know they'd switched snacks.”  
  
“God,” Amanda choked out. Monica looked ready to weep again.  
  
“What about Teddy?” Sam asked quietly. “Does anyone know how he fit the pattern?”  
  
“Teddy and I went to high school together,” Clara said softly. Her hands were in her lap, and she was wringing them viciously together. “There was this kid who absolutely adored Teddy, almost in a stalker sort of way. It wasn't like Teddy was supposed to babysit the kid, you know? One day Teddy was supposed to meet him for a study group, but Teddy got wrapped up in a basketball game with friends and didn't make it. The kid killed himself, slit his wrists.” Clara bit her lip, never lifting her eyes. “It was all over the school, even made the papers,” she added. “Teddy never said anything about it, but I know he...he felt responsible.”  
  
Of course it had to be slit wrists. Dean resisted the urge to rub at the skin on his wrists, to make sure they weren't cut. God but he hated this stupid hotel.  
  
Something white moved fast to his right, faster than he could see, but by the time he looked, it was gone. What the hell was it with these suites, anyway? It wasn't like anything was different, they all had the same stuff, were even painted the same way, but there was something off about them that was setting Dean's nerves on edge.  
  
“We should...we should try and identify which part of the poem we're responsible for,” Sam said reluctantly. “If we do, then we can know which one of us to protect. Spirits don't like upsetting patterns.”  
  
Their killer probably wouldn't like it, either. Dean cast a wary gaze over the group, trying to think which of them would be able to kill someone else. None of them looked capable of it, but that didn't mean anything.  
  
“There are seven of us left,” Harrison pointed out, “Not six. There's a 'wild card' in the mix, which will make it harder to pinpoint which stanza we match up with.”  
  
“It doesn't matter,” Amanda said. “Everyone's guilty of something anyway that'll get us killed.” She began to pace again, turning after every three steps.  
  
Monica wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock back and forth. Paul had put his hand back over his eyes again, obviously lost in remembered grief. No one looked like they wanted to talk anymore about it. Not that Dean wanted to, either. The whole idea creeped him out, and he had no idea how it was supposed to end. Teddy hadn't been the only one who'd fallen asleep reading the book or watching the movie. Dean hadn't even known there'd _been_ a movie about it.  
  
Easiest way to get some answers was to ask someone who knew, and he happened to have his own Sammypedia for that. He moved over to Sam, reaching for his hands. “Walking will help,” he said, making sure his voice was soft but still loud enough to be heard by the group. Sam gave him a long look but accepted his help and rose. He weaved a little upon standing, but not as badly as he had before, and Dean slowly helped him walk towards the windows and away from the group.  
  
“How'd the story end?” Dean asked as softly as he could. “Who wound up being the killer?”  
  
“The judge,” Sam said in an equally hushed tone. “ _Five little soldier boys going in for law, one got into Chancery and then there were four._ The judge faked his death then continued murdering them all until there was only one left, Vera, who's partially insane at that point, partially in shock. She kills herself with a random noose she finds in her room. The judge then kills himself and writes a letter confessing everything that happened.”  
  
Yeah, that was great. Made Dean feel better, really. “You asked,” Sam asked, giving Dean a look.  
  
Dean didn't answer that, focusing on helping Sam walk again to let them keep talking. “What's Chancery?” he asked instead.  
  
“It's a court of law in England,” Sam said. “They mostly dealt with land laws, verbal contracts.”  
  
Law. Sam paused, as if thinking the same thing, and as one they turned to look at Harrison. Harrison, who had so far been the most calm, reasonable one of the civilians.  
  
He didn't look so calm now. He had his thumb between his teeth, apparently biting it ruthlessly, and his hand was shaking. Dean was fairly certain Harrison knew how the next verse went, too. He looked almost as wrecked as Paul did.  
  
“Either he's a hell of an actor...”  
  
“Or he's not it,” Dean finished. The problem was, to Dean, none of them looked capable of it.  
  
But yet, one of them _was_.  
  
“There's...there's a red herring,” Sam said haltingly. “When it goes from four soldiers to three, but it was just that, a red herring to throw the characters all off.”  
  
“It was a red herring in the book,” Dean said. “Here, people are dying in the same way as the deaths they were 'guilty' for. That wasn't in the book, either. What if the killer's using that knowledge against us and _does_ wind up offing themselves as the red herring, only to think we'll think that it was the lawyer?”  
  
He stopped, making a face at his own statement. “My head hurts,” Sam said, cringing.  
  
“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” Dean agreed. He cast one last look back at the group before turning back to Sam and saying in an even softer tone, “What about Monica or Amanda? They both knew the poem. They knew it word for word.”  
  
Sam made a face. “Dean, _I_ know it word for word. It's a haunting rhyme: once you know it, it's hard to get it out of your head.”  
  
Dean would have to agree with that. Of the few times he'd heard it, it was already ingrained in his memory, and would probably haunt him to his dying day. “Then who? Paul or Clara? Paul's slated to be our fifth victim, and-”  
  
The lights went out. Dean froze, hands gripping tightly into Sam's arms. He could hear something brushing in the darkness over the pounding of his heart, and one of his hands reached behind him for his gun. Panting breaths in the dark spoke of fear throughout the room, fear of being next.  
  
Dean tightened his grips, both on Sam and his gun, and waited, pulse pounding in his ears.


	7. The 4 Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another victim brings their meager group from five to four civilians, and all of them are panicked. Desperation settles in as they try to get out before the next power outage, but in the dark, something is waiting to haul Sam away...

The lights came back on, and Dean immediately began looking around the room. Frightened faces met his, all accounted for. No one was dead. Behind him, Sam let out a shaky breath, and Dean shut his eyes in relief. “Jesus H. Christ,” he mumbled through lips that felt numb. His heart was still pounding in his rib cage, but he could hear again, and slowly, his heart began to settle.  
  
From the front of the room came the sound of someone gagging and choking.  
  
Dean's eyes flew open. Paul staggered forward from his seat, clutching at his throat. His eyes were wide and bloodshot as his fingers left red scratches down his neck. Monica shrieked and shoved herself back into the wall as Paul's eyes rolled up and he fell to the ground in a heap.  
  
Sam moved fast, faster than Dean would've thought he could, and was at Paul's side in an instant. He immediately laid Paul out to perform rescue breathing, but Dean spotted the danger first. He grabbed Sam before he could bend down, hauling his brother away. “Dean-!”  
  
“Look,” Dean ordered, and Sam turned back to Paul. A pink-tinged liquid was sliding out of the side of his mouth, even while his body gave a few final twitches. “God knows if he was poisoned, Sam,” he said.  
  
Sam straightened at that and looked up to the remaining, horrified group. “Look for a syringe,” he said, and Harrison and Amanda immediately began to move around, away from Paul's body. Monica stayed pressed against the wall, but Clara eventually rose to help, though her eyes stayed locked on Paul's body.  
  
“Here,” Amanda said, and Dean turned to where she was. Right in the corner, behind the door, was a small glass syringe. It was tiny, one of the tiniest Dean had ever seen, and the needle had to have been a butterfly needle, at the largest, it was so small. Small enough that maybe Paul hadn't even felt it when it had kicked in.  
  
Dean cast a glance down at Paul, whose half-lidded eyes still were filled with fear, even in death. He bent to pass his hand over his eyes, if just to give himself peace. They were down to five, with five bodies now scattered over three floors. Landon who'd “choked” on something, Devina who'd “overslept”, Daniel who someone had dragged into the basement, Teddy who'd been sliced up, and now Paul. Their group was getting smaller by the moment.  
  
“It was my fault,” Harrison exploded suddenly, startling everyone. Harrison looked at them all, hands twisted in his hair. “I should have fought harder, but I'd thought he was guilty, I thought he'd really killed his wife. I could've gotten him off for a light prison sentence, maybe could've gotten him acquitted of the crime all together, but I'd been so _certain_ that I...I gave up, didn't fight in court as hard as I could've. There was evidence that hadn't matched up, but I let the court have him.”  
  
He looked up at the stunned group, eyes wild. “I...It was my fault, but I thought I was doing the right thing, please believe me,” he pleaded. “But then he was put away and given the death sentence, and two years after they executed him he was proven innocent, and the right murderer was brought to justice, and I-”  
  
“You let him die!” Amanda shouted, tossing the syringe back into the corner. “You could've saved him, but instead, you screwed it up! God knows how you'll die, you condemned the other man to a lethal injection o-or the the electric chair since that's still a viable option in South Carolina, and _you let him die_!”  
  
She was nearly hyperventilating by the time she was done, drawing in huge gasps of air and barely letting any of it out. Monica was crying in her seat and Harrison looked like Amanda had shot him, even reeling backwards to stumble into the chair Sam had vacated.  
  
Dean strode forward and grabbed Amanda by the arm, hauling her over to the bed where he pushed her down to sit. “What the hell are...” he began to yell, only to halt his own tirade.  
  
Amanda was shaking badly enough he thought she'd vibrate off the bed. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she still couldn't seem to catch her breath. Dean glanced over his shoulder and found Sam kneeling in front of Monica and Harrison, talking in low, soothing tones. Clara was leaning against Monica's seat, trying to draw from Sam's words.  
  
Sam would calm them down. It was what Sam did. It was Sam's _soul_ , his very being, to ensure that people were calm and safe and okay.  
  
Dean slowly turned back to Amanda, crouching down in front of her. Her eyes were off somewhere in the distance, random tears rolling down her face. She wasn't looking at the group, she wasn't looking at the room.  
  
Dean cleared his throat before he spoke. “Which one is you?” he asked softly.  
  
Amanda didn't appear to have heard him at first, but after a long moment she began to speak in a halting voice. “We went camping, David and I. David was heading back for his senior year in college, and I'd just finished high school. It was just...just a nice time to spend with my brother.”  
  
She blinked a little and seemed to come back to the present, though she still didn't look at Dean. “It was a well cleared out camping area, it wasn't the middle of nowhere, but there were still bears, you know? And one of them surprised us out in the forest. We ran like hell, tearing through the woods and then...” She swallowed hard, tears falling again. “D-David went down. I thought he'd tripped over a root or something, but then he started screaming, and I-I saw the bear trap.”  
  
Oh god. Dean shut his eyes, trying not to see the image, trying not to imagine his own brother in a bear trap.  
  
Amanda sniffled and brushed her blonde hair away. She'd lost the ponytail at some point during the night, Dean didn't know when. “I-It was locked around his leg, bleeding all over the place. We could still hear the bear, off in the distance, and David told me to run,” she said, ending on a whisper. “He told me to run and leave him to go get help. So I did, all the way back around to camp, and I got the camp rangers and a couple of men who looked like they were hunters and they got 911 and we got back there and he was...”  
  
Dead. “They said he bled out,” Amanda said numbly. “Even if there'd been help right there when the trap hit him, they don't think he would've made it. I know I'm three soldiers to two. _One got hugged by a big bear._ It doesn't take a genius.”  
  
Dean's hands were tingling. His entire body actually felt numb and weird, and his chest was twisted up into nine types of different knots. She was right: she had to be three to two. But god, it _hurt_ , to think about losing a brother, to do the right thing and still get screwed over. Yeah, Dean knew what that felt like, and nervously he shifted on his feet, parting his lips to tell her it wasn't her fault.  
  
But Amanda seemed to have opened a valve inside, and words just kept tumbling out. “B-But maybe, y'know, maybe I should've stayed, maybe I could've helped,” she whispered, sniffling. “I-I left him behind. I could've maybe gotten him out but I left him behind.”  
  
And suddenly he was right back to Stull Cemetery, watching Sam fall into the Pit, unable to do anything to help, but worse yet, having _agreed_ to the plan. He'd let Lucifer take his brother all the way down into Hell. Then Dean had set about keeping Sam's promise to live his own life, leaving Sam to suffer in the Pit for over a hundred and fifty years. Now, his soul was so screwed up that he needed Death's Wall to keep him from going insane, all because Dean had left his own sibling behind. He'd _left Sam behind_.  
  
Even turning to glance at Sam behind him, Sam who was fine and breathing and living and maybe a little banged up but _fine_ , didn't help the sick feeling in his stomach.  
  
And then the lights started flickering.  
  
Monica screamed and leaned in towards Sam, and Dean pushed himself forward even as the lights went out completely, trying to get to Harrison, trying to keep him safe.  
  
Immediately the lights came back on. Dean stumbled and landed on the floor next to Sam, startling his brother. Dean glanced around, eyes whipping back and forth, but no one seemed to be dead. No one was clutching at their throats, and everyone was most certainly alive.  
  
For now.  
  
The small remnants of the group were looking at each other now, though, fear and a healthy amount of suspicion in their eyes. If they hadn't considered that there might not be a ghost before, they sure as hell were now. Time to get the group moving.  
  
Monica stumbled out of her chair and straight into Sam's arms, shuddering and shivering. “Can we go?” she begged. “Oh god, I can't stay in here, I want to _go_ -”  
  
“There has to be a door unlocked somewhere,” Clara said, clutching herself in a trembling embrace and running her hands up and down her arms. “M-Maybe it's not a ghost after all, and if it's not a ghost then maybe, maybe we can beat one of the windows open. We could all climb out and not be...not be here...”  
  
One quick glance at Sam showed his brother looking pale again, trying his best to comfort Monica but looking in need of some TLC himself. “Okay, then we're out of here,” Dean agreed, holding up his hands to stall the sudden race to the door. “But we move as a _group_. Together.”  
  
“Maybe the basement, there's a way out,” Amanda offered.  
  
“There's _never_ a way out of the basement,” Sam said, voice low. No, there sure as hell hadn't been a way out of the basement of the Ocean House Hotel, and god, Dean hated thinking about Bethany and William killing everyone and Tony who'd done nothing wrong except be in his brother's path.  
  
“Everyone up and moving,” Dean said, though the encouragement wasn't really needed. Everyone was already huddling at the door and shooting out into the hallway, straight for the other stairwell on the right. The lights were still on, for the moment at least. Enough for everyone to see their way down the stairs, the pounding of their steps echoing through the space.  
  
“Each room, try each room,” Clara said, and that was definitely desperation and fear Dean could hear. Not that he blamed her, but it usually was followed by doing something stupid. He pushed himself forward, trying in vain to beat the group to the exit door.  
  
The hallway they came out into was dark, though the lobby to their right was still lit up. There was an exit out onto the grounds to their left, but the door had only been etched out. It wasn't in place yet, just wall, and god, how was this place supposedly finished and ready for guests?  
  
Down the hall to the right they went, getting closer and closer to the light. The library where they'd started was on the left, Devina laid out on the sofa, eyes still half-lidded and empty. There was a room to the right next to the stairwell, empty but packed full of boxes. There were only windows up near the ceiling, and it was dark, way too dark. They moved on, footsteps getting faster in desperation as they searched.  
  
Lightning lit up the windows of the next room to the right, showing a game room. Two billiards tables were laid out, with pool cues and even antique lights already set into place. There were dart boards and what looked like a table for poker in the corner. Clara and Harrison raced into the room, pulling at the windows, trying to unlock them, trying _anything_ to get them out. “God, none of them will open!” Clara cried out, pounding with her fists against the windows. “Why won't they _open_?”  
  
Any minute now the lights were going to flicker. Dean could feel it in his gut. “We keep moving, come on!” he yelled, and they returned to the group, moving into the main lobby.  
  
If it wasn't a ghost, then there _had_ to be a way out. There had to be.  
  
  
  
The windows had already been tried, as had the main doors. Still, Sam really desperately wanted to try them again.  
  
Desperately. It wasn't a word he usually put into one of their hunts. But this wasn't like one of their hunts, was it? No. This time, they were the hunted, for no reason at all besides the fact that one of them had something very very wrong with them.  
  
Dean was trying to herd the group together as best as possible. Monica hadn't let go of Sam, fingers wrapped around his jacket. If it meant she stayed close, that was fine. “I don't want to die,” she whimpered, tears spilling down her face. “God, Sam, I-I want to go home, I just want to _go home_...”  
  
“And we'll get you there,” he promised, wondering if he was only spouting a lie that the killer was going to break any second. “Just stay with us, okay?”  
  
If she stayed with Sam, and Sam stayed with Dean, they'd be fine. He was certain of it.  
  
The group stepped into the biggest, darkest room the downstairs had to offer, and everyone couldn't help but stop where they were. The ballroom was _huge_ , more than conference sized. It extended straight back onto the property beyond the hotel part of the resort, and there were high rise windows everywhere lining the way. The lightning from outside lit up the room, catching on the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and the paintings on the wall. A particularly bright flash of lightning caught a large mirror on the right side of the room, making the pain in Sam's head spike and his vision white out. _Fuck_. His head was ringing, and he wanted to forget about the very mortal danger they were in, of the lives that were depending on him for one minute, just _one minute_ , in order to let him focus on himself. His hand slid down to his jacket pocket where his pills were, knowing that there wasn't going to be a second dose. He was going to need it all right now.  
  
As quickly as he could he pulled the migraine medication out and popped both pills at once, grimacing as he was forced to dry-swallow. The bottle he capped up and put in his right pocket.   
  
“Nothing,” Clara said, racing from the back of the room where a dimly lit 'EXIT' sign could be seen. “The doors won't open at all.”  
  
Another flash of white passed by so fast Sam almost didn't register it. He whipped his head around as fast as he dared but found nothing. A shiver crept up the base of his spine, and when he turned to find his brother, Dean's face held the same amount of displeasure, evident even in the little light they had from the lobby. “Keep moving.”  
  
Except there weren't a lot of places left to move.  
  
They all hurried out of the ballroom, the darkness making their feet race even faster. The light from the lobby didn't feel welcoming or safe either, though, and they made their way down the hallway to the right. There was a dining hall next to the ballroom, with more chandeliers, a fireplace, and the tables set up everywhere. The laundry room on the left only made Sam want to move even faster, but the blood on the floor made him pause.  
  
The others had no such qualms. If anything, the sight of Daniel's remains only made them run harder. “Oh god oh god oh god,” Amanda chanted, racing past the stairwell, where Sam could still see Teddy's lifeless body. Harrison and Clara were right behind her, pounding past the basement door and straight into the kitchen. The doors swung in and out into the dark room.  
  
A noise behind him made Sam turn and look back into the hallway. Nothing was there, but something didn't feel right. Sam felt like he was being watched, and he tried to shake it off.  
  
“Sammy!”  
  
Sam turned back. Dean was at the kitchen door, and lights were on inside the room. Forcing himself not to look behind him, Sam hurried into the kitchen, grabbing Dean's arm and hauling him inside with him.  
  
Inside the kitchen, everyone looked like they were climbing the walls. Clara and Monica were pulling at anything, from the pantry door to the tiles on the walls, as if searching for a secret passage that would get them out. Harrison and Amanda were searching in the cabinets, presumably for something to break the two windows down with. Amanda was pulling out heavy equipment like mixers and electric blenders while Harrison was pulling out random left over construction materials, anything from pipes to hammers.   
  
“We can break it down,” Amanda panted, confirming Sam's initial guess. “Just...just need the right thing to break it down with. Then we can get out.”  
  
“Has to be now,” Harrison said, face red from exertion. “We have to get out now.”  
  
“Just have to find the right thing, we can do this.”  
  
“I want to go home,” Monica begged, leaning against the wall and shaking like she'd shatter into pieces at any moment. “I just want to go home to my sisters, my mom, my dad-”  
  
Everyone was rapidly falling apart, and their panic wasn't helping Sam in any way, shape or form. “Guys, pull it together,” he tried, but his breathing kept getting faster and faster.  
  
“Hey, everyone!” Dean shouted. “Come on!”  
  
“We need to get out now,” Clara chanted, her movements frenzied. She'd change from pounding her fists to outright dragging her fingers down the wall. “Oh god, we need to _get out_ -”  
  
Suddenly she turned and ran, straight out through the doors of the kitchen into the hallway. Monica shoved herself off the wall, terror on her face. “Wait!” she cried out, dark hair flaring behind her. “Clara, wait!”  
  
Oh holy fuck _no_. “NO!” Sam screamed, racing out after them. He heard a chorus of his name from behind him but focused on the girls who were already disappearing down the hall into the darkness. God knew where they were going, they were going to get killed and god, he'd promised Monica he wouldn't let anything happen to her, he _promised_ -  
  
A strong, tight grip caught his arm, pulling him back, but wasn't enough to stop his momentum. Sam landed on a heap on the floor outside the kitchen doors, Dean's startled gasp behind him also falling fast.  
  
The lights went out.  
  
Suddenly there was a bright flashing light in the kitchen, making Sam shy away again. God the lightning wouldn't stop, the storm and this night were never going to end-  
  
Something grabbed his arm and pulled, _hard_. Sam jerked away out of instinct, felt another set of hands pulling him back to settle, but there was another pair of hands tugging him another way, and god, which one was Dean, and which one was something else? Which one was some _one_ else? “No!” Sam shouted, tearing himself free from all four hands that continued to try and reach for him, the four hands that wouldn't let him go-  
  
The lights went on, and a dark shape suddenly loomed over Sam. Sam jerked his hands up to shield himself, but then Dean's voice began to break through.  
  
“-my it's just me, it's just me Sammy, Jesus Sam calm down, it's all right.”  
  
Sam let out a shuddering breath, trying to get his heart to stop beating quite so fast. “Someone grabbed me,” he managed to get out.  
  
“Yeah, me, you moron,” Dean snapped, but the relief was painted all over his face. “Fuck, Sam, don't take off like that-”  
  
“No, someone else,” Sam said, and Dean stilled over him. “I felt someone else.” There'd been no mistaking the two very different pairs of hands. One had pulled him back, held him from trying to flail and hit the floor he realized now. Dean.  
  
The other pair had only been trying to pull him away and down the hallway.  
  
Down the hallway. The girls. “Dean,” Sam said frantically, but Dean was already hauling him up.  
  
“Monica!” Dean bellowed, eyes everywhere. “Clara!”  
  
“Clara!” Sam shouted, moving down the hallway. God, where could they have gone? Had they screwed up in their thinking? Maybe it hadn't been the lawyer next, maybe one of the girls had been involved in a land dispute or something stupid like that, and that's why they'd been next-  
  
“The hell is Amanda and Harrison?” Dean said suddenly, and Sam turned to follow where he was looking. The lights in the kitchen were out, save for the random splashes of lightning coming from the windows. All the other lights were back on...except for the kitchen.  
  
Crap.  
  
A muted whimper caught Sam's attention. There, out in the lobby against the wall, was Monica, who looked grateful to see them. “I-I tried to follow her, but I lost her when the lights went out,” she said. She looked pale, no rosy hue in her darker skin anymore. She looked freaked out and it wasn't a good look on her at all.  
  
“Stay close,” Sam told her, and Monica needed no further instruction. She immediately wrapped herself around his side, and together the trio moved back to the hallway. “Clara?” Sam called again.  
  
A fast moving figure suddenly came swinging out of the darkness of the game room, shrieking and waving a pool cue high above her head. Sam and Monica both ducked away, only to have Dean raise his arms to take the blow. The _crack_ against his arm made Sam try to shove Monica away, to get to Dean even as Dean hissed and grabbed the pool cue. Clara came tumbling out, clawing at Dean. “Have to get out, have to get out, let me go, have to get out,” Clara said hysterically. Her face was completely white, and her pupils looked uneven. “Please let me _out_...”  
  
“Easy,” Dean said, and she collapsed into his arms, sobbing. Dean bit his lip but held her close, if just to keep her from running off again. “Easy, Clara. You're all right.”  
  
“Did either of you see Amanda or Harrison?” Sam asked the girls. Clara shook her head.  
  
“I thought I did,” Monica said uncertainly. “I thought I saw her running after you right before the lights went out.”  
  
“But not Harrison?” Dean asked. Monica shook her head.  
  
Sam looked back at the kitchen, watching the lightning lighting up the room briefly. Maybe they could get the tools Harrison and Amanda had been digging out to work. Provided they weren't struck by lightning.  
  
Lightning that...wasn't flashing in the front of the house. Sam froze, glancing out the windows of the lobby. Just rain and wind banging against the windowpanes. Which meant...  
  
“Sam?”  
  
“That's not lightning,” he said slowly, looking through the windows of the kitchen doors. It didn't look like lightning so much as it did fireworks now. Nothing about it screamed anything good.  
  
And they couldn't find Harrison or Amanda.  
  
Clara's sobs tapered off, apprehension settling back in. As a group they slowly moved towards the kitchen, the darkened hallway lit by whatever was going off in the kitchen. Up close, something smelled as if it was burning, and years of experience told Sam exactly _what_ it was that was burning. His stomach turned, but he still pressed the door open and tried for the light switch.  
  
And then he stopped, Monica's scream and the sight before him making it useless, anyway.  
  
Sparks were flying from the sink, filled with water and with the blender sunk deep within it. The wire was plugged into the wall, and in between the blender and the wall it was wrapped around Harrison's neck. The lawyer was still jerking in random spasms, laid out over and in the sink, as electricity coursed through his veins, and his eyeballs seemed to glow.  
  
Guess his innocent man had been put in the electric chair.  
  
The smell of cooked flesh was seriously turning Sam's stomach, and the rest of the kitchen, save for the sparks over in the sink, was dark. Despite the lack of light, Sam could tell one other, serious problem also existed.  
  
Amanda wasn't in the kitchen.


	8. The 3 Searchers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amanda, missing. Clara, running away. Monica, Sam, and Dean remain to search the hotel for the last two remaining souls still alive. But their suspect pool is getting smaller and smaller. And one of them is a murderer.

Suddenly Clara swung her arm up and into Dean's chin, forcing his brother to let her go. “I should've known,” she said, stepping away from them all. “God, how could I have been so stupid?”  
  
Dean wasn't stumbling back or, worse, down to the floor, but he was cradling his left jaw and glaring at her. “You want to try again without hitting someone?” Dean snapped at her. “Look, we'll find Amanda, and we'll-”  
  
“One of you is doing this,” she said, eyes darting over the three of them standing in the entry to the kitchen. “One of you is the killer.”  
  
Monica gasped but didn't let go of Sam. “Clara, what are you talking about?”  
  
“There's only four of us left,” Clara said, frantically backpedaling away from them when Dean took a step forward. “We're down to _four_.”  
  
“Five,” Sam insisted. “There's five of us left to get out of here.” Amanda had to be alive somewhere. She couldn't be dead. She had to be alive.  
  
Clara was still backing away. “I can't believe I fell for that “ghost” crap,” she said, shaking her head. “I'm not dying tonight, you're not gonna get me that easily-” and she turned and ran.  
  
“Clara!” Monica cried out and shot forward, but Sam pulled her back, and she stumbled back into him with little resistance. It didn't stop her from weakly protesting, “But Clara-”  
  
“Is as good as dead,” Dean said tersely. Already Clara was down the hallway and out of sight. “We have to stay together.”  
  
“Is there really a killer?” Monica asked, looking from Sam to Dean. “Was she right?”  
  
Sam glanced at his brother before letting out a sigh. “We don't know yet,” Sam admitted. “But it might be. If it is...”  
  
“It could very well be Clara,” Dean said, eyes glancing down the darkened hallway. “This is the one about the red herring, right?”  
  
“It wasn't a real red herring in the book,” Monica started, but Sam shook his head.  
  
“It's not acting like the book. It could be Amanda, too.” The hands that had pulled at him...he couldn't have said if they were male or female. He pursed his lips. It could very well have been Amanda or Clara. Clara definitely had strength, if her pool cue hysteria was anything to be believed. And Sam didn't know much of anything about Clara, while she seemed to have known a lot about everyone else.  
  
And then there was Amanda, Amanda who took charge easily but seemed to have her emotional weaknesses. Were they a show? Now she was missing, too. She'd been in the kitchen last with Harrison.  
  
God. They were running out of suspects and running out of time.  
  
  
  
“It's not Amanda,” Dean said firmly. If there was anyone that was his top suspect, Clara was it. She had sufficiently blamed them well enough, then taken off as if frightened of them. It left her open to taking out anyone she wanted. And she had the fortitude to do it. God but his arm hurt. He hissed as he shifted it, but there wasn't a crunching or moving of bones, so he was hoping he'd only get bruised or sprained as his final diagnosis. The last thing he needed was his left arm out of the game.  
  
Maybe he was over sympathizing with Amanda. It had gotten them into enough trouble in the past. But something in his gut was screaming that she'd been telling him the truth. That much pain, to dredge up something that terrible...  
  
No. She wasn't it. She was a victim here, not the killer. And hopefully, she was an alive victim they could still save.  
  
“But now that they're both missing, they could make either of us think that they're really dead, and leave us trying to guess-”  
  
“It's not Amanda,” Dean said, giving Sam a look. Sam frowned in bewilderment. “Just...trust me,” he said, softer this time. “I got a gut feeling on this one, all right?”  
  
Sam nodded after no more than a second's hesitation. Trusting him, absolutely and completely, and Dean felt a part of him breathe a sigh of relief. After the past few years, it wasn't something Dean was ever going to take for granted again. Especially now that it was coming from the real Sam, _his_ Sammy, the soulful kid he'd raised.  
  
“So if it's not Amanda, then it's Clara,” Monica said softly, eyes whipping down the hallway to where they'd last seen her. “Right?”  
  
“Right,” Sam said, but he didn't look sure. Dean didn't feel sure, either, but he knew it wasn't Amanda. It just couldn't be.  
  
God he really hoped he wasn't going to be proven wrong.  
  
“What do we do?” Monica asked.  
  
Dean took a deep breath, wishing for the last time he had a flashlight. Thank god Clara had smashed his left arm, not his right, letting him keep his more accurate hand for shooting. Wishes weren't horses, and they still had people to find, though. “We find Amanda,” he said.  
  
And stay very close together and careful as they do so.  
  
Wasn't hard, really: with one hand Dean could've had both Sam and Monica in his reach and they'd have moved like that. Monica kept her grip on Sam, though, and Dean kept himself at his brother's side, able and ready to grab him at a moment's notice. His brother's freaked out admission during the last black-out had rattled Dean more than Sam knew.  
  
 _“Someone else...I felt someone else.”_  
  
Someone else had grabbed Sam in the dark. Dean had thought Sam was trying to fight him for some reason, to get him to let go so he could chase after the girls. But now...now Dean realized he'd been fighting someone else for Sam. Someone who'd tried to take Sam from him. Someone who'd possibly tried to take Sam down to the basement like they'd taken Daniel.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Dean cleared his throat – and his mind, though that one didn't work so well – and stepped forward down the hallway. The stairwell was empty save for Teddy's body, and the lobby didn't look like anyone was in it. The dining room was equally empty, with empty chairs all over waiting for someone to sit in them.  
  
The ballroom didn't look like anywhere Dean wanted to go, but if they needed to search the whole place, then that's what they'd do. “Stay close,” Dean told Sam, who needed no real reminder, but Monica was right there, and she definitely _did_ need a reminder. If he could find the lights they'd be fine. Just turn the lights on, make the ballroom all sorts of sparkly and bright, and they'd be fine. Yup. Just turn the lights on, Winchester. Find the switch, which had to be near the doors, right? “God, please let them be near the doors,” he mumbled under his breath, reaching in and slowly inching his fingers across the wall.  
  
Monica suddenly screamed, jerking Dean around fast. She was staring at the door to the billiards room, hands flying up to her face to try and stop, but the scream kept echoing. Dean leaned around, stumbling out of the ballroom, only to stop cold when he saw what she'd seen. A bloody handprint was on the glass wall leading into the billiards room, wrapped around the frame of the door. Dean swallowed hard and slowly began stepping over towards the room. Monica had come down to high pitched whimpers every few seconds, and Sam was slowly edging around her to follow Dean, yet keep an eye on her.  
  
Dean had no trouble finding the switch in the billiards room. Everything was instantly aglow, and Monica began screaming again.  
  
Laid out on one of the pool tables, like a bear rug, was Amanda. Her eyes were wide open in death, her jaw slack as if whoever had killed her had startled her first. She was covered in blood from her head to her toes, her blonde hair saturated with it. Her head itself hung over the front of the table, face gruesome even upside down.  
  
Of course, that might have had something to do with the huge bear trap that was currently clamped down and chewing into her neck.  
  
“Oh fuck,” Sam breathed, horrified. “God, Dean-”  
  
He cut himself off, unable to say anything else. Dean slowly approached the body, already knowing but needing to do it anyway. He owed her that much.  
  
He remembered seeing her first and thinking too much of Bethany. Then he'd found someone willing to stand with his brother, someone a little too hard headed but willing to lead. A someone who'd lost her brother just as violently as Dean had lost his. Someone who'd felt the guilt of loss all too well.  
  
Her skin was cold to the touch, and blood slid onto his fingertips when he touched her wrist. She was white, blood loss so severe that even if the bear trap hadn't killed her instantly, the bleeding would've.  
  
God he hoped for her sake it had been instant.  
  
“ _Two little soldier boys sitting in the sun,_ ” Sam recited, his voice shell-shocked. Dean turned back to watch haunted eyes meet his. “ _One got frizzled up, and then there was one._ ”  
  
Monica was still by Sam's side, her eyes locked on Amanda. “S-She was the bear one, right?” she asked, shaking. “Oh god, Amanda...”  
  
Then Clara had been the red herring. Which meant Clara was the killer.  
  
Then Dean realized that Sam had already moved on in the poem, and frowned. Sam looked stricken, wide eyes on Amanda, her blonde hair still dripping to the floor, laid out-  
  
Oh god. Oh god _no_.  
  
Dean marched over to Sam and literally shook his little brother by the shoulders. “This isn't about us,” he said. “We weren't invited to this party.”  
  
Monica was stumbling back and into the lobby, and Dean dragged Sam over to follow her. Monica didn't get far, only to the wall leading into the library, where she sat on the floor, arms wrapped around her. That was her taken care of.  
  
Now for his more personal basket case.  
  
Sam still didn't look like he was tracking or caring about anything Dean said. Dean pinched his lips and shook Sam, hard enough that Sam blinked in surprise. “This is _not_ about you,” Dean said again, enunciating every syllable. “This has nothing to do with Jess.”  
  
“How about with you?” Sam countered, and suddenly, Sam was up in his face, rage and terror about to explode. “I let you burn, Dean, and don't deny it.”  
  
The same way Dean had let Sam burn, except Sam had tried everything to get Dean out of Hell. He fought back a shudder. “How in the hell would Clara know that? Huh?”  
  
“We missed one: there's no one that died in a “red herring” way,” Sam insisted loudly. “You think it was Clara?”  
  
“Could've been the guy that was supposed to show up whose place we took,” Dean countered.  
  
“Then maybe it was for us, after all,” Sam said. “What if it's a demon, Dean? What if Clara's possessed or something? Then she'd know everything about us, the real us! Which means we _would_ fit!”  
  
“Clara!” Monica said suddenly, and Dean turned fast, but not fast enough. “I saw her race by! Clara!”  
  
“Move,” Dean said, but Sam didn't need any prompting. They raced across the lobby, Dean desperate to keep Sam's words from becoming a reality. This was _not_ going to take them down. They were going to be fine, they were getting out of there, as soon as they caught Clara.  
  
“I'm not, I'm not, not like Travis!” Clara screamed, somewhere down the hallway to the left, towards the kitchen. “Oh god, not like Travis, please!”  
  
Sam somehow managed a burst of speed and wound up clearing the hallway before Dean did, eyes on something Dean couldn't see. “The dining hall!” he shouted back at Dean, already turning into the large room. “She's-”  
  
The lights went out. Dean couldn't stop his momentum, hoped he was aiming for the dining room, but then the scream went up. The scream that was pain and fear.  
  
The pain that was _Sam_.  
  
“ _Sammy_!” Dean screamed, his heart pounding in his chest. _Oh god, oh god, don't be Sam, don't you take him from me,_ Dean begged silently. _Please don't let it be him_.  
  
The lights went back on. Dean realized that he'd overshot the dining room and was already on the bloodstain leading towards the basement. He turned back and threw himself into the room, eyes frantically seeking out Sam.  
  
Sam, who was laying on the floor. “God no,” Dean begged, dropping to his knees. “Sammy-”  
  
“Oh god,” Sam moaned, and Dean could've sobbed in relief. “My arm...”  
  
Dean gently turned him over, fingers poking as tenderly as he could. Sam still hissed, leaving Dean to conclude that his right shoulder was dislocated at the very least.  
  
“I tripped,” Sam said, trying to push himself up. “I-I was trying to get to, get to...”  
  
Dean finally looked up, freezing. He'd been so wrapped up in Sam, so fucking relieved that it hadn't been Sam, that he hadn't seen the fireplace.  
  
The fireplace Clara was currently roasting in. She was twitching still, just a little, as her body adjusted to being shoved into the fireplace, and she began to burn more steadily. The smell of burned flesh was everywhere.  
  
Dean stared down at Sam, who looked just as confused as he felt. “But, but,” Sam managed, before he stilled, eyes widening. If Clara wasn't the murderer, then...  
  
Slowly Dean rose, pulling Sam up with him. He reached back for his piece, checking that it was still loaded. All night long, he hadn't fired a single damn shot.  
  
He might have to, now.  
  
“Mine's gone,” Sam said, but he didn't sound surprised about it.  
  
Dean nodded and led the way down the hall. He pulled the hammer back, letting it echo through the lobby. The brightly lit room was empty, about how he'd expected it to be.  
  
With Sam lingering behind him, where Dean could cover him, they stepped into the library together, Dean's gun leading the way, pointing it at the person it should've been aimed at hours ago. Except she'd had them fooled. She'd had them all fooled.  
  
Now, she was holding Sam's gun, aiming it straight at Dean. Her hand was steady, and her eyes were hard.  
  
Dean smirked bitterly. “Hi, Monica,” he said.


	9. The 2nd Twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam face the killer. But that doesn't mean they'll make it out alive. And they may not be right about who they think is a danger...

Monica cocked the hammer back on Sam's gun, bringing her other hand to wrap around it. “I can't believe it,” Dean said with a dead voice, shaking his head. All along, and it had been her. Monica, sweet Monica, who wanted to go home, who screamed at everything who...who _fuck_ , had killed her _boyfriend_. “I seriously cannot believe it.”  
  
Sam stepped forward, shock on his face at it truly being _her_ , and Monica shifted her stance slightly to put him in harm's way. Dean lost any pretense of trying to be rational and glared at her. “I wouldn't do that, if I were you,” he growled.  
  
“I can't believe you think I'm that stupid,” Monica spit out. “Or were you just hoping I was?”  
  
“I was hoping for a lot of things,” Sam said angrily from behind him, snorting in disgust. “Unbelievable. I give you credit: you held out for a long time.”  
  
Held out and killed everyone. Clara, burned in the fireplace, Teddy, killed on the stairs, Devina, killed god knows how, that would be up to the coroner, and Amanda, god _Amanda_...  
  
She'd killed them all. All of them, dead at her hands.  
  
Dean took another step into the room, exuding more confidence than he felt. If she was psycho enough to kill eight people without blinking, then she wouldn't hesitate to do something stupid and kill the both of them. And he wasn't risking Sam. Not now.  
  
Monica aimed the gun higher, but she stayed where she was. “Back off,” she snarled. “Back _off_!”  
  
“It was a good act,” Dean said, tilting his head back towards Sam. “Wasn't it, Sammy?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam said through clenched teeth. “A damn good act.”  
  
Monica's hard-edged look seemed to weaken in the face of their resolve, and Dean kept pressing on to his advantage. Maybe she'd drop her shoulder, give Dean a fighting chance to get the gun back, and then he could subdue her until the cops showed up. They could figure out what the hell she'd done to the doors. Maybe she'd bolted them, super glued them, something like that.  
  
Dean stepped forward again, and Monica took a step back towards the bookshelves scattered around the room. “I'll pull it,” she said, but her voice was wavering. Dean could deal with wavering.  
  
“That's not how the story end,” Sam taunted. “Remember? You know the poem as well as I do.”  
  
If anything, Monica actually looked _more_ rattled, and Dean leaned in closer to watch her. Something wasn't right. There was something off about her eyes, something that...  
  
Monica took a step away from them and the sofa they were standing behind, nearly stumbling over a chair in the process. “I mean it!” she shouted, and Dean froze. “I'll shoot! I swear to god I'll _shoot_!”  
  
Jesus fuck.  
  
Oh holy _fuck_.  
  
Dean slowly began pulling his gun back away, his hands up in surrender. “Dean what the _fuck_ are you doing?” Sam asked incredulously, moving around Dean to take the gun. Monica raised the gun up even higher, bending her elbows.  
  
“ _Stop_! Don't...don't, please...”  
  
Sam stared at Monica, completely bewildered. “Monica, we're not the killers,” Dean said softly, because those were tears in her eyes. Tears she'd fought to keep back in order to keep herself strong. “It's not us.”  
  
“She is,” Sam said, his head moving back and forth from Dean to Monica. “She's the killer!”  
  
“Y-You're the only ones who could've,” Monica choked out, the gun still in her hands. “Y-You're the only ones who said anything about the ghost, who've been there when someone died, there's two of you, it's _easy_ for you-”  
  
“Monica, listen to me,” Dean said. Sam's eyes were already widening with realization and sudden understanding, but that didn't make Monica any less dangerous. She obviously knew fuck all what to do with a gun, if the way she was holding it was any indication. “Put the gun down, okay? It's gonna be okay. We're not gonna hurt you.”  
  
“Just...just please, l-let me go,” Monica whispered. “I won't...I won't tell anyone, please don't hang me. Oh god please, I just want to go _home_ , Sam...”  
  
“I know,” Sam said, and the sympathy was back in his voice. “God, Monica, I know. We all do. Let's just...figure this out. Okay?”  
  
Monica sniffled but brought the gun down a little. Progress. “Monica, what are you guilty of?” Dean asked.  
  
Monica shrugged her shoulders. “I don't know,” she admitted. “I wracked my brain and couldn't come up with _anything_. I haven't had anything to do with anyone's death, no matter how abstract the death might be. Never!”  
  
She gulped back more tears, and the gun fell a little bit more. “I'm innocent,” she swore shakily. “That's...that's why I've been so terrified: I had no idea which stanza the murderer would think I deserved. I had no idea which one I'd be. The others had some idea of which one they were, but me? I had no idea.”  
  
No wonder she'd been screaming and crying all night. God.  
  
“This doesn't make any sense,” Sam said, looking more baffled than Dean had ever seen him. “If it's not Monica, and I know it's not us, then...who? Who's been killing everyone? Was there...was there an extra person in the house, hiding somewhere? Or...”  
  
Shit. What had they missed? Had it always been an unknown against them, probably amused at their expense? Or...  
  
The pieces slid into place so fast Dean thought his head would snap. “Or did someone not die when they were supposed to?” Dean called out too loudly. Sam looked at him like he was crazy, and maybe he was, but he was really really counting on the arrogance of the only thing it could be. The only answer that made any sense.  
  
A bookshelf that was tilted in one of the corners slid forward with ease, making Monica whip around at the sound, gun raised. Dean immediately raised his own weapon to the intruder.  
  
Monica stared in shock. “ _Daniel_?”  
  
Daniel smirked. “Hey, honey,” he said casually. To Dean he asked, “How'd you know it was me?”  
  
“Didn't know one hundred percent,” he admitted. “But you were the only one who actually knew where things would be in the house. Like how to get into the basement.”  
  
“You're also the only body we never found,” Sam added, glaring at Daniel. “You killed all those innocent people-”  
  
“They weren't innocents, that was the _point_!” Daniel exclaimed. “The only innocent here was, actually, Monica. You were right, hun,” he said, turning to her. Monica still looked like she was frozen, mouth dropped open in horror. “You didn't do anything wrong.”  
  
Dean raised his gun, but Daniel raised his own up, pointing it straight at Sam. Sam, who didn't have a weapon, had stepped out from behind Dean, and was nursing a dislocated shoulder on top of a migraine that Dean thought he'd taken medication for. But he was defenseless right now, and with Monica in the room, that left Daniel two hostages to shoot at in order to make a point. Dean gritted his teeth.  
  
Daniel grinned and pulled his other hand out from behind his back, and Monica wailed but still managed to keep her grip on the gun. A noose. A fucking noose.  
  
“Did you know that 'Daddy Dearest' is about to go bankrupt?” Daniel asked, looking around the room. “I mean, look at how lavish this place is. It's gorgeous! Except dear Thomas Latter gambled his money away, married a second wife that was more...how shall we say, “economically advantageous” than my mom, and never looked back. I went and looked him up, I went and tried to reconnect and you know what he did? The same damn shit he did when I was a kid.  
  
“Except you know what?” Daniel asked, cocking the gun to the side as if he were considering it like a damn piece of cake. “Even with him going bankrupt, his friends are planning to help chip in and buy the place. Leave him in it for stock, and then finish the resort. So my father's name won't even be sullied.”  
  
No wonder the place wasn't finished. Latter couldn't afford to. And Daniel was doing this for revenge. “So you're, what, gonna sully his name for him?” he said.  
  
Daniel shrugged. “It wasn't hard. Researched names of people, thought it'd be interesting if a body dropped during the party. Especially if we could blame it on shoddy work, like falling through the stairs. But then my first guest had such a sordid past: he let that poor guy choke in the restaurant! An EMT, and he let him choke!” Daniel chuckled. “The irony captured me, y'know? The rest were easy to find. Easy to find them and their dirty secrets.”  
  
“And us?” Sam asked. “ _Christo_.”  
  
Daniel just looked amused. Not a demon. No, just fucked up human. “You were party crashers,” Daniel said. “There was nothing set up for you. Though you did fuck up my red herring, and pretty badly at that,” he added, and there was anger in his tone now. “I had it all planned out, and you know what people are going to see now, instead of a literary masterpiece?”  
  
“A deranged psycho?” Dean asked. Daniel's glare got a little darker, before he suddenly burst out laughing.  
  
“Yeah, actually, you're right. Ten bodies, all laid out. Such a shame.”  
  
Oh, not happening. Dean kept his gun pointed up, looking for any spot where he could take a shot. But so far, Daniel had his aim pretty well locked on Sam, and Dean wasn't going to screw with that.  
  
Monica finally managed to find her voice. “ _You_ killed these people, Danny?” she whispered. “You killed them all? God, my boyfriend was about to kill _me_...”  
  
“Was?” Daniel said, and Monica froze. “No, honey. I'm sorry. _Is_.” And then he moved, fast over to Monica, who tried to get her finger on the gun but dropped it as he reached her, noose swinging while his gun was still centered on Sam, and Sam was shouting to _shoot him_ , Dean shoot him and all Dean could think of was losing Sam. Sam was top priority, but god, he wasn't about to let Daniel get away with killing Monica, and Daniel had her in his grasp, and Dean prayed to god he wasn't about to lose his brother to save a stranger's life again and tightened his trigger finger.  
  
Suddenly Daniel was being yanked back away from Monica. Bloody hands gripped him and Dean stared, stared because a woman in a long, white, bloody dress had a hold on Daniel and looked _murderous_ , and she had her hands clutching at his shirt, ripping it into bloody pieces. Daniel was screaming and she was pulling at his face, pulling it apart, and Sam grabbed Dean by the arm and pulled him out, shouting for Monica. The three of them raced out of the library, Daniel still screaming.  
  
“Holy _shit_ ,” Sam panted as they raced down the hallway towards the kitchen. “Holy fucking _shit_ , Dean-”  
  
“Oh my god there's a ghost,” Monica babbled, fingers pulling at her hair, looking like a woman who'd seen her first ghost after a night full of terror. “Oh my god you said there was a ghost and there's a _ghost_ and Daniel killed all those people and that ghost is killing _him_ and oh my god, oh my god...”  
  
“The salt,” Dean said, trying to wrap his brain around it all, but _shit_ , there was a goddamn _ghost_ , the spirit was _real_ and she was _pissed_. He couldn't hear Daniel anymore, and that meant she was coming after them now. “The salt, oh shit, the salt's upstairs, what the hell? There's an honest to god _ghost_ here? Just when I was starting to get okay with a human murderer, now we've got a spirit too? She's been here the whole time, and fuck,” because he'd seen her. He'd kept seeing her out of the corner of his eyes the whole. Entire. Time.  
  
“I-I saw her too,” Monica stammered. “I saw her, I thought it was Clara running but no, it was the ghost-”  
  
“No, that was Clara too, because I saw her in the-” and Sam froze. Dean turned to his little brother who was staring blankly off into the distance, and oh god, oh Sam, oh _no_ , not now, not a Hell memory, not _now_...  
  
And then Sam suddenly turned around and raced right back towards the lobby. “ _SAMMY_!” Dean screamed, racing after him. The kid wasn't armed, what the fuck was Sam _doing_?  
  
No, not to the lobby, to the ballroom. Dean and Monica raced in after him, to where he was sliding to a halt in the middle of the room. “Sammy! _Sammy_!” Dean shouted, heart pounding. “Sammy, what the fuck-”  
  
“There, there,” Sam said, and Dean followed his pointing hand up to the wall. High up, up on the wall, was an antique mirror. It fit with the décor in keeping the room older looking, but considering how modern the rest of the place was, it felt-  
  
Wrong. Dean stared, his jaw dropping. “The mirror, Dean, all the mirrors in the house,” Sam was saying, but Dean already knew.  
  
Bloody Mary. Every time he'd thought he'd seen her in the suites, there'd been a mirror. The random flashes in the glass, in the mirrors hanging _everywhere_ -  
  
“That's a child's game,” Monica said shakily. “That's not...oh god, that's _real_?”  
  
Something, anything, because this ended now. Dean searched over the room frantically for anything to destroy the mirror, trying to see anything in the dim light from outside. Anything from the other rooms, sure, but the ballroom was practically empty save for the tables and chairs piled up to the sides, ready to be used. Too heavy, weren't enough to get up there anyway. And he didn't have time to get to one of the other rooms.  
  
There. Over in the corner was a small group of construction tools. “Watch for her!” Dean shouted, racing as fast as he could go. His left arm was no use, but his right arm quickly found several tools worth throwing, one of them sharp enough to get the job done in one throw. His gun would work, but it wouldn't be enough to bring down the entire damn mirror, and it had to be the mirror completely, or she'd step right out.  
  
“Hurry!” Monica yelled. “Oh god, _hurry_!”  
  
Dean came flying back across the room. “Bloody Mary,” Sam was saying, and shit, his brother was _not_ taking this one on again. No way in hell. “Bloody Mary-”  
  
“Bloody Mary, Blood Mary, Bloody Mary,” Dean said in a rush in front of the mirror. The curtains in the room began to billow, big red drapes that swung out like someone was on the other side pushing. The air immediately dropped to freezing, and when Dean breathed out again, he could see his breath in the room.  
  
A tattered white dress appeared in the mirror, and that was all he needed to see. “Dean!” Sam shouted, but Dean was already hurling the crowbar up and at the mirror.  
  
It hit the middle and shattered, and a high pitched shriek echoed through the room and right through Dean's head. Both Monica and Sam covered their ears as mirror shards crashed to the floor. The frame itself wobbled on the wall, then fell to the ballroom floor with a loud thud and a huge _crack_. It splintered in half, then collapsed to the floor, broken.  
  
Silence filled the air after that. The room began to warm back up, no longer the violently cold temperature, and it was just Monica, Sam, and Dean staring at the remnants of a night gone horribly wrong. Despite it no longer being cold, everyone stood and shook and didn't move.  
  
And Dean could swear that off in the distance, he heard a door unlatch and unlock. He breathed out and let himself close his eyes.  
  
Somewhere through the windows, the sun was rising, the storm over. Dean let it.


	10. The 1 Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun has finally risen, but there are still a few last things to be said before they can finally make sense of the night's insanity.

A little after twenty-four hours from when they'd last sat at the cafe found them right back at their small, outdoor table. The sun was shining, just as it had the day before that. Cars still ran by, people still walked on, and the cafe was still a nice, delicious place to eat outside. Dean was actually pretty grateful that it was nice enough outside to eat, because if they ate inside, they were bound to scare some people.  
  
Dean was a mess. His back was stiff and sore, his left arm was bruised and sprained and hurt like a _bitch_ to move, and the left side of his face was one mess of bruising, thanks to Clara's hard arm. He hurt, he ached, he was exhausted from the tip of his hairs to the bottom of his toes.  
  
The worst part of it was, he'd gotten off lightly.  
  
Sam, on the other hand, was a disaster. His right arm was dislocated and currently wrapped in a sling. His head had a nice goose egg on it from where Amanda had thrown him into the stairwell wall. He'd caught some of the shards from the mirror across his face, so there were bloody scratches on his cheeks, and to top it all off, the kid still had a concussion. And a migraine.  
  
Dean pursed his lips at that. Dumb ass kid had told him he'd had enough medication to last him just fine. “Enough” medication was apparently two pills, both of which Sam had taken during the course of the evening. Dean had about killed him when he'd found that tiny tidbit out.  
  
They were alive, though. Outside in the bright sunshine which was making even Dean wince, and god knew how Sam had to be feeling. But they were alive, the ghost was taken care of, every cop in the city was currently up at the Huckston Resort, and they'd even gotten a survivor out this time, too.  
  
That same survivor who was the reason they were waiting at the cafe, and was thankfully walking up to them even as Dean watched. She looked like she hadn't slept all that much, either. In fact, Monica looked downright horrible. Her dark hair was everywhere, and shadows were lined under her eyes. She looked hollow, and Dean's gut tightened at the look.  
  
But then she glanced up and caught sight of them, and the smile she gave was small, tired, but genuine and full of relief. She gave a quick wave and quickened her pace.  
  
Sam straightened in his chair as she approached, managing a small smile himself. “Hey,” he said softly when she was at their table. “Get any sleep?”  
  
“Not really,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Cops kept me up until about eight this morning, and then I couldn't sleep, y'know? Too wired.”  
  
“What'd they think of the story?” Dean couldn't help but ask. They hadn't had any unfriendly knocks at their motel room so far, but the Impala was packed to go nonetheless. They'd stop and sleep in another town, just like they had after the Ocean House Hotel.  
  
Never doing another haunted hotel. _Never_.  
  
Monica gave a wry grin. “Sold, with the help from a Leroy Hutchinson who showed up late to the party. Explained about the contest and how he'd won, but he had to work late. He's a doctor,” she explained, eyes darkening slightly. “He said he has a house on the beach. Someone drowned about a year ago on his property.”  
  
Their red herring. A doctor. Judging from the grim looks on both Sam and Monica's faces, it would've fit perfectly.  
  
Monica shook herself. “I said Daniel had trapped us all in the house and murdered everyone, then tried to kill me. I got away and took off running to get help. Daniel's...” She swallowed hard but kept going, only her chin a trembling tell-tale sign. “Daniel's being pinned for all the deaths. They found the keys to the basement on him, found detailed photographs and a chart down there, along with a couple bottles of random things. Kiwi juice, peanut oil, sleeping agents in high doses. A ton of other really bad drugs.”  
  
Any and all of the above were enough to account for Landon, Devina, and Paul's deaths. “How're you holding up?” Sam asked her quietly.  
  
Tears filled her eyes, but Monica bit her lip resolutely. “N-Not well. My boyfriend tried to kill me, and murdered everyone in the house. But I'm alive, so I guess I'm okay, and that's thanks to you two.” She gave as bright as smile as she could. “Seriously, thank you.”  
  
“Hey, it's our job,” Dean said. It was a better score than they'd had in the Ocean House Hotel, where they'd only been able to save themselves. Here, they'd managed to save one someone besides themselves.  
  
An image of Amanda's still, bloody body passed through his mind, and he fought to repress the shudder. She shouldn't have died like that. _None_ of them should've died like that.  
  
“Is that why you called us down here?” Sam asked.  
  
“Part of the reason. The other reason was because...I really wanted to know,” she admitted. “God, I'm a horrible person. But I'm trying to make sense out of last night when I don't think there's sense to be made.”  
  
“Hey, we told you we'd let you know everything,” Dean said as Sam dug out his laptop. “Trust me, we wanted to know, too. I feel like last night was a bad hangover: it all blurs together into one, big, painful lump.” Okay, so last night had been more of an LSD type of nightmare, but so little of it had made sense that he'd wanted all the pieces. As soon as they'd gotten back to the motel, and Sam had been drowned in pain killers, they'd gotten to work. Unlike their last research trip, this one had been fast. A quick trip to the hospital had confirmed their last, missing piece.  
  
“Clara and her friends were playing with fireworks last Christmas,” Sam said, having found his article. “One Travis Beaver was hit by a stray firework and thus burned alive. He was rushed to the hospital but didn't make it. None of the others were implicated.”  
  
“And Amanda?” Monica asked.  
  
“Amanda's brother got caught in a bear trap,” Dean said, eyes falling to his coffee cup. “He bled out before she could get back with help.”  
  
Sam's sudden piercing gaze was on him, he could frickin' feel it like a laser beam. “God, that's awful,” Monica murmured.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said quietly. Without meeting Sam's eyes he nodded towards the laptop. “Go on about Mary, Sam.”  
  
“The ghost?” Monica asked.  
  
“Mary the ghost,” Sam confirmed. “Actually born Mary Clarick in Nebraska, 1907. She was married in 1927 to an Arthur Shavelle, and they were happy until the Depression hit. In 1933 an intruder broke into their home and fought with Mary. She had her eyes severely scratched out and was subsequently strangled in the struggle. Arthur died a year later, and everything of theirs was sold, including the mirror. It's been bouncing through auction houses ever since, and eventually wound up in a lot in Alabama, where Thomas Latter bought it for the Resort.”  
  
“The kids in the house were playing Bloody Mary,” Dean added. “Talked to them this morning. Turns out, Joel wasn't pushed. She surprised him and he fell, all on his own.” Nathan had been much more agreeable to letting Dean talk to Joel now that the kid was awake and coherent.  
  
“Is she...is she gone now?” Monica asked. “I mean, we broke the mirror, but...”  
  
“She's gone,” Sam assured her. “It's over, Monica.”  
  
She didn't stay long after that. Dean handed her both of their numbers - “In case you ever need us for anything, supernatural or not.” - and then she left, not looking quite as haunted as before. Dean expected for them to get a couple of calls over the next few weeks before all was said and done. They usually did with victims of the bad cases. And this one had been an exceptionally bad case.  
  
Sam was fiddling with the edge of his laptop, a sure sign that he wanted to talk but wasn't sure how to approach the topic. He would've barged in, before Ruby and before Lucifer. Before Hell.  
  
Dean shifted in his chair, the noise causing Sam to still. “So...last night sucked,” he opened, giving Sam room to talk about...god, any of it. All of it.  
  
Sure enough, Sam took his chance and ran with it. “I didn't know why Amanda was the bear stanza,” he said. “She talked to you?”  
  
“Upstairs, before Harrison died,” Dean said with a nod. People were laughing softly somewhere nearby, and it was a nice, sunny, warm day out. Not dark and full of stormy weather and death.  
  
“Her...little brother?” Sam asked, hazarding a guess.  
  
Dean pursed his lips at being so transparent, at Sam knowing Amanda had struck him hard for some reason. “No, older.” He paused before finally admitting, “She left him behind.”  
  
Sam didn't say anything. Dean didn't think he would've. In the same way that Sam knew that Amanda had struck a chord in Dean, Sam also knew that pushing Dean wouldn't get him anywhere, and he was absurdly grateful that the kid knew him like that.  
  
Just like he knew that Sam had had his own hard time last night, something that had struck a little too close to home. “You thought that the burning one was you,” Dean said.  
  
“So did you,” Sam countered, sitting back in his seat. _Ah, nice try, Sammy. But if I gotta talk, so do you._  
  
“Yeah, but you were set on it, completely sold,” Dean said, leaning forward. He accidentally put weight on his left forearm and winced. Clara might not have killed anybody, but she'd known how to use a pool cue.  
  
Sam bit his lip. “I let Jess burn, I let _you_ burn-”  
  
“And I swear to god if you say that again, I'll kick your ass,” Dean said, glaring at Sam. “Jess was not your fault, and I went to Hell because of _me_. That was my decision, Sam. Not yours.”  
  
“You thought it was you too, though,” Sam volleyed back. “Didn't you? That, what, you let _me_ burn?”  
  
It was Dean's turn to be silent, fidgeting with his coffee cup. Out here in the sunshine, it was hard to remember how damn scared he'd been, how focused on Sam and his own failures he'd been, how the only thing he'd seen was Sam having a Hell seizure, of leaving Sam behind in the Pit for over a year.  
  
Actually, that last one was pretty damn present, no matter where he was.  
  
“You got me out, Dean.”  
  
Dean whipped his head up at that, glared at Sam's calm look. “No, I didn't. I left you behind while I went and played Susie Homemaker-”  
  
“You fought for my soul, wagered against _Death_ and lost but still won, somehow. You fought for me. You always fight for me,” Sam said softly. “You could've kept my body and left my soul but you didn't. That's saving a life, not taking one, Dean. There's no way you were the second to last stanza.”  
  
Something unfurled in Dean's chest at the simple, easy way that Sam laid it out, the even tone of basic fact, like that's exactly how it was and nothing anyone ever said would dissuade him otherwise. Sam would hold to that to his dying day, and Dean loved his stupid, stubborn, incredible brother so damn much, it was unbelievable.  
  
Though Sam was wrong. There'd been no other option, no other way it could've gone.  
  
“Can we never, _ever_ do another haunted hotel?” Sam pleaded. “Please?”  
  
“Oh god I'm so okay with that.”  
  
“I want it in writing.”  
  
“I'll write it in fucking blood or tattoo it to my head or something. No more. We pass the next one on to Rufus and keep the damn whiskey for ourselves.”  
  
 _No way I could've left your soul behind in the Pit, Sammy. No way I could've left you behind._  
  
No other option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! While these two fics in the series were reposted here from LiveJournal, there will be a brand new fic, never before posted anywhere, that will soon be posted and shared. Make sure you're subscribing to the series so you can get the update. So excited for this fic that's been a few years in the making: I think I finally have my plot bunny dots in a row on it.


End file.
